


tears of things

by somnicordia (hihazuki)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Characters to be added, Gen, Hot Springs & Onsen, M/M, Obon, minor characters not tagged, post-WMTSBII, spoilers for nalhegrande arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-07-25 18:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihazuki/pseuds/somnicordia
Summary: Post-WMTSBII AU. Sandalphon struggles to deal with himself and the implication of his newfound powers.He finds that he's not alone.iv.“We’re goingwhere?”“The hot springs!" Djeeta chirps. “We’ve been en route to the place for a while now, actually. I'm surprised you never asked."He doesn't know why, either. He could think of several things they could do that was better worth their time, like things that started with the word 'Lucilius' and ended with the word 'legacy'. Had he given them too much credit by thinking they thought the same?“You brought us halfway across the skydom,” Sandalphon reiterates. “To go to an island that has these so-calledhot springs.”





	1. auld lang syne

**Author's Note:**

> **tears of things** , also known as _lacrimae rerum_ or 物の哀れ ( _mono no aware_ ): an awareness of impermanence, or transience of things, and both a transient gentle sadness (or wistfulness) at their passing as well as a longer, deeper gentle sadness about this state being the reality of life.

  
It starts off with one little pet peeve.  
  
Sandalphon tells himself it’s fine. Skydweller customs are none of his concern. His presence on this ship is but a temporary arrangement, an insignificant flicker among what he perceives to be many in his immortal divinity. As far as he is concerned, he only has one mission — one that most certainly did not include relaxing his meticulously self-imposed boundaries to brew coffee for these people.

_Alright_ , he relents. Only for the two in particular whom he happens to be fairly indebted to — three if you count the flying reptile. He doesn’t mind those people; maybe even _favors_ them (although he’d rather die than admit it). There’s something to be said about their absolute persistence to be around him, their unwavering conviction to his cause and their own.

The rest of the crew? Not so much.  
  
In spite of that, he can’t help but observe them, silly as they may be. And, well… if he was going to require their future assistance in subduing the bane of Lucilius’ legacy, he might as well acquaint himself to their antics.  
  
It only takes him a scant few days to notice a glaring fact — mortals are ludicrously excitable. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been surrounded by a different type of kin his whole life, or if mortals simply cannot fathom an existence without incessant camaraderie and frivolity.  

(Creator knows _he_ could live without both for several lifetimes.)  
  
It goes like this: the moment dusk falls upon the skies, the circus curtains fall. No matter how trivial or insignificant the occasion, it is cause for lavish revelry. He’s seen everything from welcoming new members to sending people off being the highlight of their late night fêtes. Sometimes there isn’t even a clear reason other than simply making merry.  
  
Sandalphon recalls a man in particular, a so-called _Eternal_ , who would spearhead most of these celebrations. It’s because of him that Sandalphon is forced to resign himself to many a sleepless night, the obnoxious racket of noise and music reverberating through his thin cabin walls not unlike the cataclysms he had once wrought. Oh, and has he forgotten to mention that god awful _screeching_ that one crimson cretin calls singing — as if his strange human instrument hadn't already caused the primarch enough of a migraine. Has everyone on this ship gone stone deaf?  
  
One of these days, he’s going to have a word with that man. And if it comes down to a sword fight like he's always bribing the Singularity into, it'd give Sandalphon the excuse to 'accidentally' push him over the edge of the ship. If the man's the  _strongest skyfarer_ as he claims to be, he'll probably survive.  
  
Sighing, he reluctantly tucks that slightly perverse thought to the back of his mind. A year ago, he would have no qualms acting on that simple urge. _But things have changed since then_ , he muses quietly as he mindlessly folds the corners of his bed. Now he's bound by something much larger than his own paltry sentiments, almost to the point of suffocation. Or is that just his room?

He slides the window open, just a crack, taking a second to breathe in the fresh air before making to leave his room. It's the early crack of dawn, and the halls are still dark and enveloped in peaceful tranquility— a rare form of sanctuary that he can only savor for the next couple hours until the Grandcypher stirs from its most recent intoxicated slumber.   
  
He doesn’t know how many people Djeeta managed to drag onboard for this fantastical journey to the ends of the skies, but he’s not eager to find out. To him, Lyria and Vyrn are already more than enough to foster an entire army.  
  
The second he walks into the mess hall, he hears it — an unbelievably shrill, abruptly deafening sound that leaves just as fast as it comes, knocking the air out of his lungs in one fell swoop.  
  
It takes him a second to realize it's coming from him.  
  
It happens again.  
  
And again.  
  
Realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning, instilling with it a strangely compelling mixture of fear and dread in his gut he’s seldom felt before. If he had to describe it, it would be like discovering that he was no longer immortal; the distant, illusory notion of death suddenly becoming a very real possibility to his kind.  
  
Gods above. He had just _sneezed_. Not only once, but _thrice_ in succession.  
  
Holding a hand up to his nose, he narrows his eyes and glares at his surroundings. Thankfully, the mess hall is completely deserted, the soft rays of the sun only beginning to peek in through the windows. Nothing seemed out of place as far as the eye could see; at least, for skydweller standards.   
  
And yet the tickle in his nose is there, ever persistent, powerful and unyielding.  
  
What is this nonsense? In the entire two millennia of existing, not once had he ever felt such an uncontrollable, repulsive itch in his throat and nose. He'd always thought it was an exclusively mortal sentiment. Could it be? Has he spent so much time around them that he'd contracted something so arbitrary? As far as he could tell, there was no visible stimuli of any sort. Something like this couldn’t have just appeared out of nowhere.  
  
After stalking through the expanse of the hall the second time, he finds the culprit — dark, clumped tufts of organic fur clinging to the benches and the ground. After closer inspection, he realizes they form a trail leading out into the residence halls, with subtle footprints hidden underneath, unassuming.

Footprints that very much did not belong to those of any anthropomorphic race he's aware of.   
   
Sandalphon grits his teeth. Who in their right mind would allow a wild beast into a dining area? Granted, he has little need for any particular form of nourishment for this to affect him so personally, but the idea that skydwellers have such a blatant disregard for their own hygiene is downright appalling.  
  
Casting one last grimace at the mess, he chooses to walk away. He may have vowed to embody the role of humanity’s protector, but he’s not their babysitter. They can clean up after their own mess.  
  
Mug in hand, he strides into the kitchen, anticipating the aroma of coffee beans. When all else fails, coffee is —and will always be— his primary antidote. He can already taste it; the exotic, sweet, and slightly bitter tang on his tongue, reminding him of peaceful afternoons in an isolated gazebo overlooking lilies of the valley and cyclamen that stretched far beyond the horizon, feathers the color of pure snow flitting gently in the breeze. An ephemera's blessing.  
  
As he lets himself caress the fringes of a beloved auld lang syne, he turns and spots the sink — and at that point, he sees absolutely nothing at all save for his beloved mug slipping slowly, tragically through his fingers.

.

 

.

 

.

 

  
The room is dark and cozy, and Djeeta feels tempted to burrow into her comforter and revel in the warm solace it so rarely offers most days. She tosses back and forth, rolling herself into a blanket burrito in the process; her last line of defense. 

She groans. As tempting as staying in bed all day sounds, her ever responsible conscience reminds her that she has to make the rounds at least  _once_ , just to make sure everyone's accounted for and no one's gone off the rails to skydive without her supervision. 

Yes, that happens. She's lost count of how many close accidents they've had with drunk people teetering a little too close to the edge, so much so that she's seriously considering cordoning the deck during given hours of the night. The only reason she hasn't, is...well, she's not entirely sure how to implement that specific kind of measure. Plus, she's not really big on the  _autocratic leader_ stereotype. In a way, it would just contradict their role as skyfarers, to restrict freedom of movement for others.

Rolling on her side, she sits up to slide away the curtain covering the porthole, opening it to let in the fresh morning breeze.    
  
It’s not often she gets time off from errands, missions and the like. Right now, they’re in the Nalhegrande Skydom, taking a break from one of their mainland excursions to attend to personal affairs — at this point, it’s hard not to consider Sierokarte’s requests as anything otherwise. With how much help she’s lent the crew in their time of need, Djeeta’s willing to do anything she asks for short of jumping off the islands (not like she hasn’t done it before, but that's a story for another time).  
  
Her most recent assignment had led her to a remote, nearby island, where she had run into a very unlikely pair. Inviting them aboard the Grandcypher had seemed even more unlikely, but the combined persuasive forces of both Lyria and Vyrn had proved peerless in the face of the most inconceivable odds.  
  
It had worried Djeeta, at first. She doesn’t remember when it started becoming customary for her crewmates to throw a party every time she brought newcomers on deck, but she knew this time was no different. She was less worried about how the others would react to the werewolf and more worried of how the pair would react to their...less than modest company. Lyria had promised them discretion and safety, but there was no telling how they would perceive the welcoming.  
  
Surprisingly, it went well for the most part. Admittedly, none of them could get a handle on the little girl, Renie, as she constantly hid behind her werewolf guardian who —despite his novel and intimidating appearance— turned out to be much more amenable than his human counterpart, if a little awkward.  
  
It came to an extent where some even found that trait endearing, if Lunalu’s ecstatic squealing were any indication. Looking back, the Harvin girl was probably the one who bothered him the most. 'Probably', considering her first encounter with Siegfried (She has yet to swing by the knight's room to see if he had actually hung her portrait of him like he said he would, but she's in no rush to find out). Unfortunately, Djeeta didn't get to stay for the rest of the party to find out what other contrivances Lunalu had conjured for Wulf.  
  
Normally, Djeeta isn’t much of a lark. There’s little more she hates than being left out of something fun or engaging, but she’d had a long day. Once she made certain things wouldn’t descend into anarchy in her absence, she left to retire for the night.  
  
Judging from the fact that she slept through morning to early afternoon without so much as a rude awakening by the likes of a certain dragon lizard, things must have gone pretty well.  
  
...Or not. She pokes her head out the window, scrutinizing the deck before her. It’s mid-afternoon — she’s pretty sure there should be more people roaming around right now, and yet there's barely anyone there. Being situated closest to the deck, she's fairly used to being woken up by the constant stir of the crew outside. It was either that, or Vyrn barging into her room in the unholy hours of daylight. Have they docked without her knowing?  
  
“Oh, it’s Djeeta! Good afternoon.”  
  
Djeeta turns at the sound of the voice, brightening as she sees who it is. “Jeanne! Morning. Ah, wait,” She blinks, catching herself. “Haha, I guess it’s afternoon now, isn’t it.”  
  
“Indeed, the sun has risen to its peak.” the blonde chuckles, but Djeeta can spot a note of concern simmering underneath her wisterian, downturned eyes. “You must be exhausted. It's not often I see you wake up this late into the day.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m trying not to make it a habit.” Djeeta laughs, hand going to the back of her head in a way that doesn't look like she's frantically attempting to smooth out her rampant bed head. While she doesn't mind Jeanne seeing her like this, it's still a little mortifying to look anything less than her best. “By the way, what’s going on? Where’d everyone go?”  
  
“Ah, well.” she looks flustered. “It’s strange, really. I’m not sure what’s going on, myself. It seems as if something peculiar has happened down in the mess hall. There was a bit of a crowd there when I went by this morning.”  
  
Djeeta’s face makes a small ‘o’ as she processes the news. Honestly? That could mean anything. As ominous as that sounded, she tries to avoid jumping to conclusions as she makes her way below deck. After all, she's made it this far going through the worst, most unimaginable of situations.  
  
The last time something like this happened, it was because someone had snuck one of the minors a drink (all leads pointed to Lamretta, although the drunkard would probably have no recollection of it if asked), and said minor had ended up duking it out with his best friend in the mess hall all night long — at the cost of some collateral damage. It didn't help that Ghandaghoza had egged them on, waxing poetic about the _vitality of youth_.  
  
Nevertheless, Rackam wasn’t happy about it — he had made sure to remind her of it every second of the day for the rest of the week.  
  
That day, Djeeta had learned a valuable lesson to never let impressionable people her age near Draphs, especially those of drinking age (mostly Lamretta). Even if her life depended on it.  
  
Mind made up, she turns the corner, and then —  
  
" _Nya_!"  
  
Grunting at the sudden impact, she loses her balance and stumbles backwards, rubbing her nose where it had hit something quite hard and bulky. The blonde looks up to see a very distressed Sen, stammering and trying extremely hard not to flail her massive claws for hands.  
  
"I-I'm so sorry, Captain!" she squeaks, her shrill, frail voice climbing several more pitches. "I didn't mean t-to run into you _oh my goodness_ p-please forgive me are you alright are you hurt d-do you - do you need me to take you to the infirmary I'm sorry please let me—"  
  
"Hey, hey, whoa, it's okay!" Djeeta cuts in hurriedly, offering a placating smile. Her nose is barely throbbing anymore. "I should be the one saying sorry — it's my fault for not looking at where I'm going."  
  
She looks unconvinced, which is to be expected. Sighing internally, Djeeta tries again. "Really, you're fine. I'll try and be more careful next time, alright? Don't beat yourself up over it."  
  
She hangs her head, making a noise that, if Djeeta paid close enough attention, sounded suspiciously like an injured feline.  
  
Sen, much like the cat she's often made to portray (a story Djeeta would rather not recount), is one of the more sensitive ones in the crew, if not the _most_ ; the Erune breathes in self-deprecation and reassurance like the air itself.  
  
One of these days, the girl is going to volunteer to walk off the plank for no particular reason other than taking up space, and Djeeta wouldn't be surprised.  
  
"Anyways," Djeeta continues, taking in her surroundings. "I wasn't expecting for there to be so many people here." Jeanne was right — there's a real crowd around them, talking to each other in hushed whispers. Every now and then, they would peek in the direction of the mess hall, an almost fearful aura permeating the air. "Is something going on?"  
  
At this, Sen perks up. She looks around to check for something before turning to Djeeta, ears twitching. "There's a really scary man in the kitchen. I don't remember seeing him before, but he smells different. Not like everyone else."  
  
This has Djeeta ruminating as she bids Sen a _see you later_ and weaves her way through the cluster of people.  
  
_A scary man_ , huh? Coming from Sen, an admission like that probably isn't as credible as she thinks. The first person that comes to mind is Wulf, but Djeeta's pretty sure Sen already met him last night at the party. If anything, she remembered them hitting it off rather well (animalistic similarities, maybe?).  
  
Smelling different is another thing. Djeeta's no Erune with a keen sense of smell, but even then she knows that travelling with a group this eclectic is bound to promote a level of diversity. It's even got the makings of a small nation; from common races like Humans, Draphs, Erunes, and Harvins, to rarer, exotic species like Vampires, Crystalia, Werewolves, and Primals joining their journey.  
  
Primal beasts who were essentially gods in physical form, with might and knowledge surpassing any other race. Second only to the legendary astrals, they are natural phenomena personified. Forces of sheer power to be reckoned with since the beginning of time; including those of the most ancient, original beasts —  
  
— Wait.  
  
No way. It can't be.  
  
Suspicion pricking at the back of her mind, she finally makes it to the front of the masses, where only the most fearless and courageous of men stood.  
  
"Hey, Lowain." Djeeta whisper-speaks, not wanting to scare the trio currently standing huddled together in front of the entrance.  
  
"Yoooo, chief!" Lowain looks over his shoulder from where he was not-so-quietly making exchanges with his brothers. "You ain't gonna believe this, man. Check this out! We're like, totally losin' it right now."  
  
“Like, uber sub-zero chill!” Tomoi pipes up. “Kinda like the shower last night…”  
  
“Dude, seriously?” Elsam groans. “That ain’t nothin’ but a chicken wing. You gotta man up, I keep telling ya!”  
  
“Well if it weren’t for someone hoggin’ all the hot water, maybe there woulda been some left for the rest of us!”  
  
“My bad, with how much you keep gushin' bout _Freezie_ I thought you might have appreciated the _freez_ -ing water!”  
  
“Not cool, bro!” Tomoi blurts, face reddening. “You know that’s—”  
  
"Okay, okay, that's enough." Djeeta chips in, not even bothering to ask about this _Freezie_ character. Chances are it's someone they made up, anyway.

Yeah. They're a special bunch.

She clears her throat. "Seriously, though. What's happening in there? It's not Vira, right?"

All three turn to look at her with wide eyes.  
  
"Bro….you yankin’ my chain right now?" Elsam says, wide-eyed. "He ain't nothin' like Vira. At least she goes full on aggro when she's amped as all hell. But right now? It's colder than a well digger's ass in there! Like he skipped the whole wack jack and went straight to beast mode."  
  
"Dead nuts! None of us got the balls to take a step inside. Just takin’ one itty bitty step’s gonna light you up like a firework!"  
  
"Real talk, Djee-tan," Lowain says, very seriously. "I'd take that crazy chick over this any day. Ya feel?"  
  
Actually, she’d take a day of peace and normalcy over this special brand of pandemonium; not there’s ever been a day without a disaster of some kind. She thinks maybe she’s getting too old for this. "I can't say I fully understand what's going on, but you've had your fun. I don't think it's wise keep on stirring—"  
  
Tomoi hushes, a sputtery, staccato noise. "No diggity! That dude—"  
  
"— the Supreme Primarch," Lowain finishes, his voice descending into a new all-time dramatic low. "He's doin' the _dishes_."

.

.

.

  
  
The galley is nestled deep within the mess hall, a tiny, modest room where Djeeta finds herself after clearing away the crowd, telling them that no, there isn’t a serial killer rampaging in the galley, and he’s not out for their blood. Yes, he may be a little huffy, but that’s just the way he is usually. Nothing to it. The small commotion had also drawn Lyria and Vyrn to the kitchen, where they soon become awed by the state of the room.  
  
“But seriously,” Vyrn looks entranced, ogling at one of the pristine countertops. “I can even see my reflection on this!”  
  
“The counter’s made of wood.” Sandalphon deadpans. “If you can see yourself, you’re probably delirious. In which case, I highly recommend a psychiatrist.”  
  
A reedy screech assails the ears — Sandalphon can even see the surface of his coffee shiver.

“You jerk! I was trying to compliment you, but then you had to go and crap on it!” Vyrn snaps, and with a single battle cry, he charges at the back of Sandalphon’s head.  
  
Without turning around or setting down his cup, he leans his head to the side just so that the dragon sails right past where he had just been, running smack dab into Lyria’s arms with a big _thunk_.  
  
“Please,” Lyria yelps, struggling to restrain a miffed Vyrn in her arms. "Don't fight!"   
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the galley this clean...ever.” Djeeta crosses her arms, peeling her attention away from Vyrn and Sandalphon staring daggers at each other. “You really went ham, huh.”  
  
“It baffles me just how complacent you people are.” he huffs, pulling his attention away from the fuming dragon. “How you can tolerate this squalor is beyond me. Has no one taught you of basic hygiene? You’re lucky I cleaned this place up before it got infested with fruit flies.”  
  
“Ah, we’re so sorry!” Lyria gets out before anyone else could get a word in edgewise. “I think we may have gotten a little too carried away last night... and it kind of slipped our minds? I mean, Vira keeps telling me to stay away from the galley especially if the Lowain bros are here, so I guess I wasn’t really paying attention…”  
  
“Ah, those three rowdy Erunes, I take it?” he says, taking a languid sip. “I see that not only are they responsible for the poor state of the galley, but they are also incapable of _respecting other people’s privacy_.” he ends his sentence a little louder than he intended, but it gets the desired effect.  
  
Not two seconds later, they hear a muted thud and what seemed to be frantic, hushed noises before a series of pattering fades into the distance.  
  
“What was that?” Lyria perks up as Djeeta tries to stifle a smirk.  
  
The brunet sighs, setting his cup down. “Never mind that. Here, I made you guys coffee too.” then he pauses before adding, “Even you, little dragon, so stop sulking.”  
  
The response is instantaneous. “I’m not sulking!”  
  
“I just woke up, so that sounds perfect. Thanks!” Djeeta inhales, eyes closing. “Smells perfect, too.”  
  
He hears Vyrn huff under his breath, saying something about _jerk with a heart of gold_ before proceeding to reach for the milk carton.  
  
“You don’t want to do that,” Sandalphon interrupts, halting him in his tracks. “Just give it a taste first, and then add some more if you don’t think it’s enough. It's not the same blend as last time.”  
  
“Hnnng,” Lyria intones, her eyes shut as she savors the taste. “It’s so warm...and sweet? That’s interesting. Did you use the same beans as last time?”  
  
“I did.” he affirms. “I just mixed in a bit of cinnamon and almond milk in your cups, since you both seem to like it sweeter. I hope it’s to your liking.”  
  
The way Lyria looks at Sandalphon next is nothing short of adoring, and somehow, he starts feeling a little awkward. Resisting the urge to duck his head, he turns to Djeeta. “I didn’t tweak yours, since you looked like you enjoyed last time’s batch. I hope I’m not wrong.”  
  
“No, you’re right. I prefer it as it is!” Djeeta remarks, eyes twinkling in mirth. For some reason, Sandalphon knows he’s not going to like what she says next.

“You know," she starts, and he tries not to wince. He hates when he's proven right. "You’re much more observant than you let on. Not to mention kind of strict, but not in a mean way, you get what I’m saying? You actually remind me of someone.”

“Oh, oh! I know!” Lyria jumps to her feet, enthused. “You mean Echidna, right? He’s attentive and caring, just like her,” she beams, before settling down again. “I hope she’s doing okay… I miss her.”  
  
“Maybe we can visit her again, once all of this is over.” Djeeta promises.  
  
Sandalphon blinks. “Echidna?”  
  
“Oh, she’s a primal beast we met recently. She’s super gorgeous, and super sweet and nice, too! I felt like I could tell her anything.”  
  
“Yep,” Djeeta smiles. “She’s the primal beast of motherhood.”  
  
He stares. “What.”

Being compared to a woman was one thing. But a  _mother_?  
  
But before he could protest, Vyrn suddenly breaks into a fit of giggles, shattering the terse silence. He points at Sandalphon’s face. “Y-you should see the look on y-your face! Oh, man, you look like you got zapped!”  
  
He feels the traitorous flush travel up his neck. “Can it, whelp.”  
  
“Oh, sorry! We didn’t mean to offend.” Djeeta interjects, wide-eyed. “What we mean is, no one really pays attention to their surroundings like you do. You remembered how we liked to take our coffee, even though we only drank together once. You took it upon yourself to clean up after us when you didn’t have to. Even if you don’t act like it, you care in your own way. It’s kind of unexpected.”  
  
“I’m just used to this, that’s all.” Sandalphon mumbles, and before he could think twice, “I’ve had to clean up after Lucifer all the time, so this is nothing.”  
  
It’s true. While Lucifer plays the part of Supreme Primarch extremely well, it didn’t apply as well towards other aspects of his life. People who didn’t have the privilege of becoming close to him would never have seen it coming.

Sandalphon didn’t know where Lucifer lived, or if he even had his own abode, but his temporary living quarters in the lab was more often than not left staggeringly disorganized; tomes and scrolls strewn all over the desk and floor, bed haphazardly made, splotches of black ink on the table, little strange trinkets here and there — Sandalphon even remembers seeing a mortar and pestle, of all things, on his bedside drawer. While he wasn’t one to pry into other people’s business, he had to wonder if Lucifer just had queer interests.  
  
In the first few weeks, he’d tried to turn a blind eye to it. Sometimes he wished Lucilius would send some other archangel as messenger for Lucifer instead of him. Surely there were plenty who would pounce on the opportunity to approach Lucifer, judging by the leering and unpleasant looks he would sometimes get when he walked through hallowed halls.

He didn’t really consider himself a neat freak, but the longer he spent time around Lucifer, the more it was starting to drive him nuts. It didn’t help that Lucifer wasn’t even _aware_ that his room was even the slightest bit unkempt. When Sandalphon finally worked the courage to bring it up to him, all he said was:  
  
“ _Is that so_?” he had laughed, carelessly charming. “ _If you say so, then it must be true_.”  
  
_Hopeless_ was the first word that went through Sandalphon’s mind, though he would never dare say it aloud. Did supreme primarchs normally hold such disregard for their personal lives? He wouldn’t know; Lucifer was the first and only one known to mankind. And yet no one was even mildly concerned with his general upkeep; far too besotted were they by his awesome aura and standing.

And that’s how, in one way or another, cleaning became Sandalphon’s favorite pastime.  
  
It was better than doing nothing, after all.  
  
Fading back from the memory and into the present, he sees the three of them looking at him, poorly disguised curiosity and concern on their faces.

He contains the urge to sigh. When will these people ever leave him to drink his coffee in peace? Peace and quiet became a fleeting fantasy the moment he joined their unruly band of misfits... but he finds that he doesn’t really mind it.

For the most part, at least.

“I'd tell you to use your imaginations again, but I don't think I have the heart to refuse you a second time." Sandalphon says, a small curve tugging at the corner of his lips. "So just this once, I'll tell you."

 He watches as their bodies lean forward slightly in eager anticipation. _In your dreams_ , he wants to say, and see the look on their faces as he sits back and downs the rest of his coffee like he had that one time.  
  
"I’m sure he must have given you all a wonderfully well-endowed impression of him,” he gives in, merciful. He can't help it; he must have gone soft. “But don’t be fooled. In truth, he’s a bit of a slob.”  
  
Mouths fall open as eyes grow to the size of saucers, fear and horror rooting them as if they expect him to be torched on the spot, and then them. To say he is amused is a bit of a mild understatement.  
  
In fact, it's enough for him to continue. “Don’t get me wrong, I respect and admire him like everyone else does, but some people sing blind praises without knowing what he’s like underneath." he leans back, letting himself be swept away by nostalgia. "He wasn’t even aware of it himself. One time, I couldn’t open the door to his room because he’d somehow wedged a mountain of dirty laundry between the door and his bureau! Can you imagine?" Blank, uncomprehending stares. "For one who rarely dons anything other than what he always wears, it's very odd. Case in point; I tripped one time and a whole bag of powder blew up in my face. It cost me my vision for the next five minutes." Sandalphon shakes his head in fond exasperation.

“That was prior to me finding out it was actually coffee, but nevertheless, he was far too dense for one who governed the whole world. I don’t think he even noticed who cleans his room every now and then. Oh, woe is me!” he expels, throwing his hands up in the air with much more flair than necessary, to which the three startle visibly.

He hasn’t been this amused in….centuries, if he had to be perfectly honest. “I envied the Four. They probably never had to deal with a mess like his.” 

“Oh, uh.” Djeeta echoes, looking a little like a fish out of water. “The Four. Right, um. You mean the four Primarchs?”

“No, I meant their disciples.” Sandalphon enunciates slowly, watching as their faces morph from one form of incomprehension to another. “The four Primarchs each have their own disciples who serve and abide by their every will. In turn, they receive their divine blessing and tutelage.”

Something seems to dawn in Djeeta. “You’re talking about _them_!”

Lyria and Vyrn look to her in confusion. 

“If I’m not mistaken, it’s Shiva, Grimnir, Alexiel, and Europa.” she lists them off one by one on her fingers. “Is that them?”

Well, that was unexpected. 

Sandalphon looks at her, eyebrows arched. “I’m surprised you know of them. I’ve never known them to manifest in reality, let alone interact with children of man.”

“Did they? I’m not sure.” she says. “They just showed up in my dreams.”

As expected of the _Singularity_ ; Sandalphon can’t say he’s surprised. “I’m sure they were a handful. They love to stick their noses into everything that concern their masters.”

“Maybe a little.” Djeeta laughs. “But they were an interesting bunch. Especially Grimnir.”

Ah, _him_.

The other two choose that moment to pester Djeeta about her acquaintances, and Sandalphon couldn't be more relieved. He absolutely doesn’t want to talk about _that_ one — he’d rather not go on a tangent of the numerous ways the man got on his nerves. The rambunctious warrior was barely tolerable on the best of days. On the worst days, he was absolutely insufferable. There was no counting how many times he got Sandalphon in trouble, with the other three conveniently missing every time it happened.

“In any case,” he interjects, and the conversation between them tapers away. “It should be clear to you now why the Primarchs have an apprentice, and Lucifer does not.”

He supposes he sees it coming from the moment the words left his mouth; the question racing through their minds, alighting in their eyes, resting on the tip of their tongues.

When he shakes his head, it's slow and heavy. “I know what you’re thinking, but the answer is no. To officially become an apprentice, there are holy rites of passage and sanctification rituals to perform, as well as accrue esteem from the Astrals who command them.” Though that was no longer practiced nowadays, for obvious reasons. “I didn’t go through any of that. As you all know, I had my own role to play.”  
  
He doesn’t tell them that Lucifer did, in fact, pull him aside from time to time, away from the watchful eyes of the researchers. Prior to their coffee sessions, he’d teach him how to fight and wield his authority as an archangel — a custom primarchs normally didn’t extend beyond their disciples.

For all intents and purposes, Lucifer must have been preparing Sandalphon in the event that something happened to him. Sandalphon had questioned it once, only to receive an enigmatic smile in return. From there, it had seemed blatantly obvious.

His eyes fall on his cup, half-empty and alone. “I existed purely for his convenience, therefore it would only be natural for him to perceive me as a viable way to pass time.”  
  
“Not true.” Lyria interjects softly. “I’m sure he also didn’t want to choose another apprentice.” — _because he has you_ , Sandalphon hears.  
  
“ _You brought me peace of mind every time I came by the lab_.” Lucifer’s eyes were wistful and longing, his words larger-than-life. “ _Your lack of a role allowed me to look upon you as my equal. Your pure-hearted words would always instill me with such tranquility_.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Sandalphon utters, ignoring the age old twist in his chest. “Perhaps not. We will never know. Regardless, it doesn’t excuse the fact that he had little to no self-preservation skills.”

And that fact held true, right to the very end. Maybe if Sandalphon had caught on to that in the other world and wasn’t so busy moping over his own pitiful irrelevance to the point he needed a little girl to snap him out of it, he would have broken out much sooner. He could have actually been _useful_ , like he had always wanted.

What a joke.

Djeeta coughs, breaking Sandalphon out of his reverie.

“I have to say, it feels so weird to see you divulge his true nature like this," she lets out a small, breathy laugh. "Almost like you’re committing sacrilege. I can’t imagine Lucifer would be happy to know about this.” Then she hums. “Although, to be fair, you’re probably the only one who can get away with it.”  
  
“Yeah, can you imagine what’d happen if the other four Primarchs got caught knocking at him like that?” Vyrn simpers. “Not that they ever would, but you know!”  
  
“I can’t imagine it at all….” Lyria shivers, hugging herself. “And I’m not sure I want to. It sounds really scary.”  
  
“Well, either way, he’s not here to tell us off, so there’s really no point in pondering.” Sandalphon really didn’t mean to, but the words came out of him so easily. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t so blunt, but the centuries have dulled his sensitivity.  
  
Regardless, it’s the truth.  
  
Silence weighs heavy upon them once again. Glancing outside the window, he sees the sun dipping behind the clouds. Is it that late, already?   
  
Just as he’s about to gather his belongings and rise, Lyria stops him. “W-Wait, Sandalphon! I feel like there’s something you should know.”

“Lyria.” Djeeta warns, hesitant.  
  
He pauses.  
  
Her gaze lands everywhere in the room that isn’t Sandalphon. “When we met Echidna, she told us something….. I’m not sure if you already know this or not, but there’s no harm in saying it.”

"Are you sure?" Djeeta intercepts again, brows furrowed. "I don't know if that's—"

"I believe in Echidna!" Lyria protests, turning to Djeeta. "Don't you?"

"I'm not saying I don't." She replies calmly. "I just don't see how that's going to benefit the situation right now."

"Of course it would!" Lyria shoots back, hands balling into tiny fists at her side. "It's a sign of hope, and I think that more than anyone else, Sandalphon deserves that!"

"What are you two babbling about?" Sandalphon snaps, feels the thread of his patience splinter at the seams. Being left in the dark is no longer something he can tolerate, especially when it's about him. "Out with it, already."

Lyria takes a deep breath, eyes shining when she brings them up to meet Sandalphon's. “Since you're one, too, you should know this. Echidna said that when primal beasts sustain grave damage, they don’t die. They merely fall into a deep slumber. So it seems likely that he’ll — no, I’m positive he’ll come back one day.”  
  
The atmosphere quiets as the crew looks at each other, uncertain of the silence Sandalphon offers in reply.

Without a word, Sandalphon sits back down again, a tangible weight on his shoulder.

“I-I’m sorry… I’m overstepping my boundaries,” Lyria stutters, her ears red. “You don’t have to pay any mind to it! I just wanted to—”

“No, it’s fine.” Sandalphon cuts in. “I’m not some delicate maiden who needs to be tiptoed around.”  
  
So far, he’d successfully skirted around the less fortunate memories…. Memories prior to his continued exposure to Lucifer, when all he knew were the blinding white walls of the experimentation wing contrasting the morbid horrors within; test tubes set up in solemn rows, housing angel cores and who-knows-what; Astral researchers standing behind the half-silvered mirror with their clipboards and muted conference, their hard, cold gazes invisible yet present.

He knows that in the end, he has no choice but to confront it again. Perhaps it was an act of mercy that he only remembered bits and pieces of it— the Astrals, while whimsical and cruel, were not so heartless as to dissect him without some form of anesthesia.  
  
What he does remember is unimaginable pain afterwards, enough to make him keel over and curl up in bed, sobbing, whimpering and chewing on the inside of his cheek, even biting his tongue until it bled. He’d claw at everything to just make it all stop. Pain to beget pain, to distract him from the punishing agony scorching him alive. The bandages covering lacerations that felt bone-deep and deliberately fatal would come undone, opening up ugly, pulsing masses of puckered, swollen flesh. It didn’t matter anyway: those stitches and bandages were just a formality. Archangel anatomy dictated that in the event of injury, muscle and bones would repair at ten times the speed of humans. They were, after all, designed to be great weapons of war.  
  
Though that isn’t to say the healing process was any less painful. During the process of his internal organs physically restructuring, he would writhe and often cough up blood, staining his sheets. He would keep coughing, hacking his strained lungs until he stopped just short of coughing up his core. Realistically, any mortal would have succumbed. To him, the inherent gift of regenerative ability seemed, more than anything else, a never-ending curse.  
  
“You’re right." he says finally. "Death is a concept that doesn't apply to primals. The only way to kill us is if we fall to the bottom of the sky, where our physical bodies, our cores, our existence unravels and disintegrates."  
  
No matter the outcome of the rebellion, something would have come out of it. Victory? His revenge fulfilled. Defeat? He would be struck down from the skies and fall to his demise. His torment would be no longer.  
  
It was easier than he thought to make peace with it as he fell from the high heavens, a gaping wound in his abdomen, his vision wet and blurry with catharsis. The remnants of his mana-generated greatswords had burst into brilliant violet shards, joining his rapid descent into oblivion like crystal rain, sharp yet fragile. Sandalphon thought of no fitter way to go.  
  
Unfortunately, all of his careful calculations did not account for the variable that was Lucifer. With little in the way of his single minded determination, he swooped down, cutting mercilessly through the swathe of dueling friends and foes alike.

All to save one to whom he had personally served judgement and condemned.

_Let me die._

The light grew relentlessly, mercilessly brighter. Even the sun paled in comparison to the unflinching warmth that burned the back of his eyelids.

_Let me die._

His arms reached out.

_Please._

As his consciousness ebbed away, only one thought retained utmost clarity in his mind.

_If one of us has to die, let it be me._

Lucifer was the hope of the skies; the arrow of divinity flying straight and true, guiding wayward souls to salvation and delivering vice upon the villainous. He was the morning star that would bring dawn upon the bleakest of nights. Auxiliary power was superfluous in the face of the Supreme Primarch, with Sandalphon being nothing more than an addendum reaching an inevitable denouement.

Lucifer would live.

He closed his eyes, feeling the gentle beating of his warmth, his strength, his wisdom; all of it would live on for all eternity.

Lucifer was indestructible... or so he believed. The world would be nothing without him, because that was how it was meant to be. All of creation would cease to be.  
  
And yet, the world still goes on.  
  
"In theory, you’re right." he says. "However, with the state he was in when I found him…"

Years of harboring a vendetta have taught him how to tear people apart, rip their wings, and destroy them limb by limb; but nothing about putting them back together. 

"I don't know." His knuckles turn white as he grips his cup tighter, his head bowed, hair obscuring his eyes. Vaguely, he feels sick. "I honestly don't know."

He doesn't know what to believe in. Hope is not something for him to grasp and believe in, not when he's doubted it, abandoned it and let it bleed out in isolation.  
  
But he starts to feel it. He feels it in the skinny, clumsy arms circling around his neck, the tiny pair of wings flayed out awkwardly around his head, and the firm, but kind embrace of the singularity the world revolves around.  
  
He thinks maybe, maybe everything will be okay, in the end.

 

.

.

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

>   
>  _everybody finds love in the end_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ sakura nagashi
> 
> many thanks to my best homeboy [Veeran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veeran) for betaing this sorry mess of a fic ~~and inspiring u to write ur own lmao all according to keikaku~~
> 
> fun fact: the whole premise of this fic happened while i was washing dishes one day, and it just spiraled. yea, that's literally it. also, it was supposed to end here. just a oneshot. 
> 
> a oneshot, my brain says, as i shit out 10k more words.
> 
> anyhooo most of the fic has already been written, so expect weekly updates!.....hopefully.


	2. requiem of hiraeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Besides. It's not like there's anything left to lose — especially for the likes of us."
> 
> He felt the other’s gaze on him like molten iron, and couldn’t help returning the favor. Within those inscrutable eyes, he could see the violet tempest of defiance and coldly tempered determination. These were the eyes of a man betrayed and scorned, embittered by the austere verity of a world that deemed them broken beyond repair.
> 
> It felt like looking in a mirror.
> 
> "You're right." Sandalphon acquiesced for the first time that day.
> 
> Breaking away, he turned back to the sunset. The glowing sun, a crisp circle in the bloody sky, illuminated a quivering path across the sky, bathing the wispy clouds in a burning red.
> 
> Somewhere deep down, he knew. The distant horizon, crimson in all its quiet, blazing glory, was one he could bask in for the last time in two thousand years. 
> 
> "This is all we can have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to my lovable captain aka moistking for betaing and putting up with my lucisan bs on a daily basis. and also, shoutout for the rest of the crew who would chip in every now and then! y'all make me moist.

He had lost those wings the second they blinked out of view.

The wondrous power that had coursed through his limbs and fingertips only seconds earlier was gentle and soothing, and yet no less superlative than that which he had gracelessly carved for himself out of the macabre.

A divine hymn and curse more terrifying than anything he had ever laid hands upon. The signature that had coiled itself tightly around his body, his soul, was as profound and familiar as the hand that was once on his own. A hand that will never be on his own again. 

It was in both parts panic and relief when he felt the power trickle out of existence, utterly spent like it never was and never had been, as he let himself plummet down into the waters of Lethe once more.

Cosmic retribution had led him into the very same ordeal he had once subjected the Singularity to; that he had no doubt. They would be wise to let him fall.

But as for the powers himself — had it been a final mercy? Or was he simply ridiculed of all the ideals he had so violently yearned for in his rampant crusade? He couldn't tell. To him, the supreme primarch’s kindness had always been a double-edged sword, no matter how many lifetimes went by.

Regardless, he was gone for good; along with every last trace of him. 

Oh, he had never been more mistaken. 

The sheer novelty of the mortals coming to save him —despite having every right to let him reap his long overdue karma— was not what drove him into the throes of discombobulation. Looking back, he would have much preferred for that to be the extent of his concerns.

No, it had been something else.

His eyes were struck wide and unseeing, limbs splayed out on ligneous surface, splintered wood digging into his back. Yet the fresh bout of sweet agony spiking through his nerves upon impact, the excruciating ringing in his ear that _never seemed to end_ ; all had wholly diminished in the face of the truth that resonated through the deepest recesses of his core.

Glorious wings of providence, gone as they may be, but the promise that ebbed and flowed in his core had persevered. It was there, a soulsong weaving through his bloodstream, the lines of his back, and the cage of his ribs as though they were meant to be.

 _How persistent_ , he thought as tears worked their way into his eyes, fierce and unbidden. It was gone by the time the two rascals of prophecy, predictably, rushed in to retrieve him.

From that point thereafter, the intangible brilliance on his undeserving back had gone unseen by all, hidden by homespun, mottled brown.

At least, that was his hope.

The powers he had inherited are still far from fully harnessed, but from the way things look to be now, he might as well have sprouted those wings again. He feigns ignorance when he walks into public areas, but he knows. The way people would creep just a little further away and toss him sidelong glances did nothing to explain otherwise. Surely his little stint the other day shouldn’t have warranted _this_ much attention.

He vaguely recalls agreeing to traverse the skies, not into the lion’s den.

Regardless of how he deigns to conceal himself under the guise of his fellow mortal peers, the presence of eyes on his back is as routine as his morning caffeine. It's not to say that he's gotten used to it, but sometimes there's little he can do but ride it out.

Besides, he can’t exactly find it in himself to fault their barefaced curiosity. As it stands, archangels rarely manifest in the realm without reason, bound as they are by the non-involvement pact. No doubt having an archangel walk around in broad daylight would turn heads — much less a primarch who (supposedly) holds the highest title over them all.

Most of the gazes are curious and fascinated at best; wary, puzzled, intimidated at worst. No matter. Such passive nature of interest is none of his concern.

He's never felt anything remotely hostile until one day when he walks on deck to make his regular morning rounds.

(Once, the singularity had pulled him aside, told him he didn’t need to feel responsible for the crew’s wellbeing to that extent.

Sandalphon had disagreed, remarking that it was less for them and more for himself. He’d rather have something to do than spend his days with weaponized thoughts that never truly go away, though he hadn’t voiced that part. Contrary to popular belief, he isn't keen on broadcasting depression at every chance he gets.)

The sun lazes over the deck like a warm blanket as a cool breeze grazes his cheek, a slight chill seeping into limbs weary from sleep. It’s early enough that only very few people mill about as he had expected. In the distance, he can spot Noa and Rackam on the elevated navigation deck — the peaceful calm on deck carries conversation of the Grandcypher and their planned course to some distant island to the east. For what, he has no idea.

Catching his eye, Noa breaks off slightly to smile at him. Rackam follows suit, his body turning slightly towards Sandalphon as he shoots him an amicable wave. Despite having known solitude for the better part of his life, Sandalphon recognizes an open invitation when he sees one.

He looks away.

Zooey, a fellow primal, was perched over the hull with her dragons, two of which were frolicking about. A third —one he had never seen before— is tucked safely in her arms, slowly nodding off as she grooms it the way she would a purring feline.

Thankfully, none of them had noticed Sandalphon, and he much rather preferred it that way. Mind-boggling didn’t even begin to describe the dragons’ most bizarre fixation with him, and woe be it if they caught even the slightest whiff of him.

He had learned this the hard way once, when he’d allowed the girl to introduce herself for the first time on deck. There was something not quite primal nor mortal about her, and he couldn’t stay his intrigue. The dragons had trailed behind her as per usual, but he felt it was nothing to be wary of, even when they turned their round, beady eyes at him.

What was the saying, again? Curiosity killed the cat?

The female arbitrator, for all her renown as the peacekeeper of the skies, was a poor excuse of a master. Instead of reigning in her pets, she had merely gaped like a blithering idiot as they left her side to circle around his head like vultures — then proceeded to break into fits of tittering _laughter_ , of all things, when the very same spawns of hell plowed relentlessly through his hair like it was some sort of irresistible catnip.

When he complained as such, she had simply laughed harder, tears streaming down her face as she watched him swatting at the sprightly terrors — an activity he quickly realized to be a fine exercise in futility.

 _“I’m sorry — it’s just, I’ve never seen them flock so eagerly to someone they’ve never met before_.” She had said when she finally caught her breath, shaking her head and blinking moisture out of blood-red eyes. “ _They must really like your hair! It looks very fluffy. May I touch it?”_

He shudders.

 _Demons_ , the lot of them.

With as little sound as possible, he inches away to the stern, where the ship’s wings provide a haven of shade from the sun and people; a much welcome respite.

That's when he feels it.

His survival instincts kick in and he stills all sudden movement. Without moving his head, he observes his immediate surroundings through his peripheral vision. Nothing.

His skin crawls. He doesn't know why he feels so uncomfortable. _It’s probably just one of the more cynical ones_ , he tells himself. As long as they do nothing, it shouldn't be a big deal. The last thing he wants to do is bring more attention to himself than he already had.

And yet, the malice contained in that gaze is enough to rival his own, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Unable to stand it any longer, he turns to face the cool shade behind him.

“Can I help you?”

A man sits on the spar with his arms crossed and leg bent, looking for all the world like he was simply enjoying mother nature. And yet the narrow slits of his eyes and the deep, visible crease on his brows as he looks down to appraise Sandalphon belies the truth.

"Nothing.” He says after a second. “You just look familiar for some reason."

That gives Sandalphon pause. Familiar wouldn’t even begin to describe this man, but the same can’t be said for him, apparently. How much time had passed since then? It feels like decades, but he remembers it as clear as yesterday.

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

Sandalphon had sat with legs dangling mindlessly on the loggia of his dilapidated sanctuary — an ancient relic that had existed long before the Astrals set foot in the world and laid siege to the skies. Decently sized and situated far from the public eye at large, the former mining facility was where he had decided to take refuge among many others.

His eyes gazed blankly at the sky spread before him, its natural beauty doing nothing to move him. From time to time, he would find himself sitting vigil in this place  sheltered from all — his newfound comrades included — a tiny haven where he could pretend that the world was for him and him alone.

In those brief, quiet moments when he lets his guard down and puts his endless anger to fleeting rest had he wondered: did he do the right thing? If only he hadn’t the misfortune to overhear that conversation, would he still be there, with him? If he had just remained in blissful ignorance, he could still —

No. Ignorance can only tide him over for so long. There is nothing hid which shall not become manifest, no secret which shall not be known and come to light. Despite his best efforts, staying by that man’s side had not and will never quell the raging unrest in his core, that much was certain.  

He would rather want for what he did not have than be satisfied with what he did not know. That alone was enough to repel all doubt; although the waves of retrospection that accompanied moments of solitude such as this was out of his control.

When he closed his eyes, he'd see it. Days when he was relieved from the R&D lab, away from prying eyes that only perceived him as an object of vivisection; away from the taunts and cruel hands of his peers, jaundiced and resentful; and away from the one, true source of all of his infinite joy and suffering, who could indulge him in a thousand coffee interludes and still would have never taken a hint.

As those days passed by, he had let himself recede further and further into the shadows, ushered into a place where all forms of light shied away and feared.

Here, he thrived. For once in his life, he was among those who shared his grievances — and for that, he was grateful. Not once had anyone dared to trespass another’s boundaries, content to stew in their own private miseries and—

—a sharp _thwack_ on his head all but snapped him back into the present.

Well, all save for one, it seemed.

With an array of colorful expletives on the tip of his tongue, he whipped around to see a dark, willowy snake retreat back into someone’s body, hissing in derision.

It took all he had to resist snarling at the offender. Of course, out of all the times he was bothered, it had to be _now_.

“Do you need something?” Sandalphon ended up saying, the facade of cold tolerance.

“Looks like I finally got your attention,” the man droned in a tone that grated at Sandalphon’s nerves on a near daily basis. “Shame, really. I would have liked to see how you’d fare if I chucked you over the edge.”

“How audacious,” he replied, curling his lip. “I’d like to see you try, vermin.”

“Oh, believe me, I wouldn’t have thought twice if it weren’t for that shrew.” He popped his neck, grumbling. “She’d rip me a new one if I do so much as gripe about you. Flicks a switch the second you're out of sight and fusses over you like you’re some kind of newborn, then forces _me_ to do her babysitting work just because I’m the only one who isn’t sitting on his ass.”

“Olivia, I presume.” Sandalphon inferred, feeling his mood plummeting even further. The woman was respectful, considerate even for a fallen. In battle, she was cold and efficient, ruthlessly driven out of sheer determination. Out of everyone, she was the least likely to become distracted by the mundane, hence her rapid ascension to a much higher echelon of command.

To think even she thought it necessary to coddle him. He turned his back towards the man. “Tell her I’m fine. Her concern is appreciated, but entirely misplaced.”

“ _Right_.” he drawled.

The dripping sarcasm gave him pause. “Excuse me?”

“For fuck’s sake, it doesn't take half a brain to see what you're doing.” Sandalphon could almost hear the eye roll behind him. “Quit mopin' already. You're the one who wanted all of this, weren't you?"

 _Of course not_. Sandalphon wanted to say. _I didn't want to go behind Lucifer's back like this. I didn't want to be born like this, aimless with no purpose other than to become someone's shadow._

"Azazel," Sandalphon said, the name distastefully thick in his mouth. The fallen angel was one of the few he was familiar with prior to his departure from the Lumacie laboratory. From what little exposure he had to him, the pallid man was an equal contender with Grimnir for the worst possible person to be stranded with; perhaps even more so.

"We strike tomorrow," he paused to eye the object he was holding. "and you're _drinking_?"

Instead of replying, Azazel chose that moment to pull his head back and chug the ale, adam’s apple bobbing in a way that made Sandalphon want to yank it out.

"I think the real question is," Azazel spoke up before Sandalphon decided to act on it, smacking his lips obnoxiously. "Why aren't _you_?"

He takes a second to process the sheer stupidity that had come out of his mouth. "Are you out of your mind?"

The primarch had a liberal experience dealing with snide comments, but Azazel didn't seem to be the type to ask rhetorical questions for the sake of being snarky. Not that he’d know for sure. Given the choice, he’d rather not know the man at all.

"If you're that eager to die, then by all means, why not just jump off this ledge right now?” Sandalphon suggested helpfully. “I’d be more than happy to help."

Azazel barked out a laugh, rough and contemptuous. "Simmer down, little sparrow. What's wrong with a demon enjoying his last supper?"

Irritation prickled hot under his skin at the moniker. Deciding he wasn’t worth snapping at, Sandalphon turned back to ignore him with a small _tch_.

However, instead of leaving like he had hoped, the man chose to take that as an invitation to plop himself down next to him. Sandalphon resisted the urge to hit his head on the back of the pillar.

Wonderful. So this is how he was going to spend his last day of peace; with the barmy clown who thought there was no finer prelude to war than unmitigated intoxication.

"You know," Azazel continued, unheeding of Sandalphon’s internal grousing. His tone was peculiarly flippant. "We may be stupid, but we sure as hell ain't blind."

So that's what happened, Sandalphon thought with vindication. He’d finally managed to flush out his last two brain cells with that last swill. "What?"

Azazel clicked his tongue, vexed. "You think we don't know? This is suicide. A ragtag bunch of nobodies going up against our overlords; the gods who created us with the power to undo us. And with Lucifer on their side? There’s basically a ten to one— no, a _hundred_ to one chance of us kicking the bucket. We might as well be volunteering ourselves on the chopping block — victory against the Astrals be damned. That shitty excuse of a primarch must think he’s had us all wrapped around his little finger.”

"If you know that, then what are you doing here?" Sandalphon retorted, agitated. "I never asked any of you to fight with me. You all gathered of your own accord. If you want to back out now, do it. There’s no shame in saving yourselves while you still can."

Azazel stared at him, hard. "You're a real idiot, aren't you?"

That was the last straw. Eyes flashing, Sandalphon rose to his feet, hand flying to his scabbard. "If it's a fight you really want—”

"Save it for tomorrow." Azazel interjected, unruffled from where he remained sitting, arm sprawled lazily over his bent knee. “I wasn't trying to insult you. Or maybe I was. Who knows. Point is, you're not the only one with a score to settle. Shouldn't it be obvious by now? I don’t know about the others, but as far as I’m concerned, this is the quickest way to simultaneously be rid of those foul astrals _and_ put Belial’s ass in a sling."

He wasn't even looking at Sandalphon. His eyes were fixed at some faraway point in the horizon, staring so hard he might as well have teleported out of his body. Sandalphon had the strangest feeling that if he asked, he wouldn't get an answer.

He relaxed his stance, scoffing as he let go of his hilt. "I suppose I can’t refute that.” And, just because he could, “Maybe you're the idiot, then. For not valuing your own life."

The ensuing snort from his companion was devoid of all malevolence. "Ha! Touchè. Takes one to know one, right?"

Sandalphon had nothing to say to that. Instead, he leaned against the pillar across from the albino, wordlessly crossing his arms.  

"Besides. It's not like there's anything left to lose — especially for the likes of us."

Sandalphon felt the other’s gaze on him like molten iron, and couldn’t help returning the favor. Within those inscrutable eyes, he could see the violet tempest of defiance and coldly tempered determination. These were the eyes of a man betrayed and scorned, embittered by the austere verity of a world that deemed them broken beyond repair.

It felt like looking in a mirror.

"You're right." Sandalphon acquiesced for the first time that day, quiet and profound.

Breaking away, he turned back to the sunset. The glowing sun, a crisp circle in the bloody sky, illuminated a quivering path across the sky, bathing the wispy clouds in a burning red.

Somewhere deep down, he knew. The distant horizon, crimson in all its quiet, blazing glory, was one he could bask in for the last time in two thousand years.

"This is all we can have."

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

  
The countless millennia in Pandemonium had dulled their memories, its malicious darkness distorting the fabric of time and space, eroded their sense of being and will to survive. And yet somehow, miraculously, Sandalphon was not lost to its machinations.  
  
"Well." Sandalphon says. "It's probably all in your head."  
  
With an indignant _tch_ , Azazel makes to leave; but not before a hand reaches out to scruff his collar, and he yelps.  
  
"You don’t honestly expect to just get away with your conspicuous staring, do you?" Sandalphon scoffs, ignoring Azazel's indignant protests. "Come. Put your wings to good use and help me scout the ship's perimeter."  
  
“What makes you think I have wings?!” Azazel retorts, legs flailing. “Don't you see my horns? I'm—what did you people call it— a _daft_!”  
  
Lyria had once told him how well he could maintain a straight face in most situations; Djeeta called it a _poker face_. He doesn’t really pay attention to himself, so he couldn’t say for sure. Regardless, he hopes it’s still in effect. “You mean...a draph?”  
  
“Yeah, whatever the hell you just said,” Azazel grumbles. If he notices the imperceptible twitch of Sandalphon’s lips, he doesn’t comment on it. “Take it easy on me, would you? I just lost my memory. I don't even know how I got here, much less my own name!”  
  
“Azazel.”  
  
“What?!” he replies, with none of the confused hesitance and second-guessing of one suffering from memory loss.  
  
“I stand corrected,” Sandalphon snorts. “You’re right. You _are_ daft.”  
  
“Alright, pretty boy,” he snarls, blissfully unaware. “You think you’re so clever— ”  
  
"As entertaining as this entire exchange has been, I’m afraid I must interrupt before this devolves any further.”

Turning his head, Sandalphon sees a woman descending upon the deck adorned with wings the color of radiant dusk. She lands, a graceful touch, smoothing a hand through long, aureate hair before tucking in her wings. “Azazel, I suggest you look at yourself in the mirror every now and then. You might be surprised at what you see.”  
  
It takes a second for it to click. Eyes widening, Sandalphon drops Azazel with a resounding _oof_. "You're—"  
  
She turns towards him, eyes glinting. "It's good to see you again, Sandalphon. It’s been a while."  
  
She was here, in the flesh. Standing in front of Sandalphon, she could be no other. But what was this weakened aura he was sensing? And if these two are here, did that mean…?

He has too many questions and not enough answers, but only one takes priority. "You...remember?"  
  
Azazel, a sprawled, broken heap of black on the ground, groans. Olivia turns her attention to him. "Don't you think you're bullying him a little too much, Azazel?"  
  
"Are you blind, woman?" Azazel bemoans. "Look who's on the ground!"  
  
Olivia looks back to Sandalphon, who's watching the exchange with the focus of a man watching the pieces click in place.  
  
Her expression turns apologetic and a tad bit wistful as she gazes at the unseen on Sandalphon’s back.  
  
"How strange the fabric that fate has woven us. Who could have predicted you would become the next Supreme Primarch?"  
  
"Absolutely no one, judging by how everyone's looking at me like I’m some sort of museum exhibit." Sandalphon says, reclaiming his composure. "I don't even consider myself one, really. I used up all of its power during the fight with Avatar, and haven't been able to call upon it again since."  
  
"So I’ve heard." Olivia bows her head. "You performed rather admirably, as unorthodox as the entire ordeal must have been." she pauses. "I deeply regret not being there to assist you; my attention was needed elsewhere. Regardless, you have my sincerest condolences."  
  
"It's fine." Sandalphon dismisses. "It wasn’t your battle to fight, anyway. This is... penance. For the sins and atrocities I've committed. And for being unable to free our brethren in Pandemonium as well."

She blinks, surprise flickering across on her face.

"Sandalphon," Olivia starts, schooling her expression into neutrality. "You mustn't blame yourself for our compatriots. You've done them a great service by attempting to undo the seal."  
  
"It wasn't really for them." he mumbles.  
  
"That matters little." she shakes her head. "Be that as it may, that burden is now no longer yours to bear. You embody a different role now, one that you must devote your entire existence to."

He knows it, he does. But reminding him of it doesn’t make it any easier. “Is there anyone else here...besides you two?”

“Not that I know of,” Olivia says, regretful. "The only reason I stand before you now is due to the will of my brethren. What you see is just a manifestation of my consciousness that I conjured from that prison.”

“I see. But what of Azazel?”

“I got out, just like you did.” Azazel says gruffly. “But I don’t remember how.”

Sandalphon narrows his eyes at the brusqueness in his tone, but doesn’t comment. Whatever Azazel is omitting doesn’t concern him. “How many of us are left?”

“Last I recall, there was only a handful of us.” Olivia says, closing her eyes in thought. “Daniel, Caim, Seere, Shemyaza, and Sariel were the ones who saw me off. I could sense two more scattered throughout the dungeon, but that’s all.”

Only seven had remained; ten including them, from a considerable force of two hundred rebels.

It isn’t hard to draw the conclusion, as much as Sandalphon wished otherwise. The countless cores that amassed the dark legacy known as Avatar had to come from somewhere.

"I'm assuming that's why you're here, then," Sandalphon continues, easing his mind away from the unpleasant truth. "with this motley crew. Lucifer was the only one who could undo the seal, as all of our creators had perished. You knew Lucifer had manifested for Lyria and the others, and thus, you saw an opportunity to spy on him."  
  
"How perceptive of you." Olivia smiles wryly. "As expected of our former leader."  
  
"But now he is no longer." He says, barely managing not to wince. "And the lock to Pandemonium died with him. Is there another reason why you're here?" Though he has a feeling he already knows the answer, he figures it won't hurt to ask.  
  
Predictably, Olivia begins to color, throwing a surreptitious glance to the crew members that had begun to spill on deck.

"Well—"

"Bah. Supreme Primarch or not, nothing's changed." Azazel scowls, peeling himself from the ground and brushing himself off. "He's as annoying as ever."  
  
Ticked, Sandalphon opens his mouth. “You—”

“ _Heeey_! You grouchy-looking guys over there!”

The three startle, attention swiveling to meet the new voice that had joined them seemingly out of nowhere.

“Yeah, you three!”

A young man sprints in their direction, stumbling to a halt just in front of them as he looks up at them, face positively beaming with too much life and vigor. Sandalphon resists the urge to shrink away.

“You guys have a moment?” he chirps breathlessly, and without waiting for a response, “I’m looking for someone called Sandalphon, the Supreme Primarch! I’d heard he’s on this ship. I’d like to test my mettle against him!”

“...What?” he says, rather weakly.

Feather redirects the fire of his gaze to Sandalphon, who already regrets opening his mouth. “The burning passion in my soul has led me back onboard in search of better heights. I have to answer its call! I want — no, I _need_ to grow stronger. Way stronger! That’s why I want to match fists with the most powerful archangel, at least once!”

Great, another headache. Just what he needed.

He hadn't experienced it directly, but he'd heard horror tales from Djeeta about this man. While she gave him no visual cues to his physical appearance, he could extract enough from  _rabid_ and  _ear-shattering._  To think there were people who could singlehandedly rival the intensity of the ship's insufferable parties.

Then something clicks.

He said something about fists, didn’t he? And speaking of headaches…

“The Supreme Primarch, you say?” Sandalphon says with a bright smile, drawing puzzled looks from all around. “Well, you're in luck, little one. It just so happens that he's right—” bringing his hands behind a certain someone’s back. “—here!”

He shoves hard, sending the man stumbling forward with a surprised grunt. Without missing a beat, Sandalphon takes the last few steps towards the edge of the airborne ship and leaps over it, unfurling his brown wings as he dives and takes to the air.

Olivia seemed to have caught on early, as she follows right behind him with an amused grin.

Azazel, on the other hand, is frozen on the spot where they had left him in utter shock and disbelief.  
  
The last thing he hears as he flies away is Azazel shrieking shrilly about spilling Sandalphon’s guts all over the floor and using his bloody entrails as a noose, right before he gets mauled by an overeager martial artist.  
  
And if Sandalphon laughs, it is lost to the wind.

It appears as though his hobby in sadism had yet to fully disappear, he realizes. Submerged in his smug, shallow victory, he all too completely misses the white haired young man gazing at him from the crow's nest as he soars through the azure skies.

 

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

 

Djeeta appears from under him, propelling herself over the ladder with a small huff and taking her place casually by his side. “Are you sure?”  
  
He hums, a small smile ever present on his face as he watches the new supreme primarch fade into a tiny speck in the distance, then nothing. “Fret not, Djeeta. All will happen in due time.”  
  
“You say that, but…” Djeeta trails off. “Just... be careful, okay? I’m worried about you two.”  
  
“I will try my best.” he promises. “But regardless of how either of us feel, this must be done.”

 She hums, looking as though she wants to say something, but thinks better of it. Drawing her knees towards her, she sighs.  
  
“To be honest, I was worried. When he joined, I thought he would for sure feel your presence. But he hasn’t said a word about it nor act any differently.” She confesses. “You’re not really who you look like, are you?”  
  
“I—” he stops suddenly, bringing a hand to his chest.  
  
Djeeta is instantly on her feet. “Oh no...it came back? Should I get Sophia or Jasmine?”  
  
“There is no need.” he pants. “This hollowness, followed by bouts of unfathomable pain... After some recrudescences, it is apparent that this onset cannot be cured by simple herbs." At the expression on her face, he smiles reassuringly. "Do not look so alarmed. Not all hope is lost yet.”  
  
“How can you say that when you don't even know what it is?” Djeeta protests, voice trembling. “Please, let us help you find a way, I know for a fact that—”  
  
“I believe this is the only way.” he interjects gently. “I acknowledge the fact that I joined your crew through less than honorable means, therefore I may not have the right to ask this of you. All the same, will you find it in your heart to trust me?”  
  
At that, she silences, choosing instead to look downwards instead of offering a reply. Satisfied, he closes the palm over his chest into a fist. “It seems I can no longer delay the inevitable.”

Looking up towards the sea of endless blue, he mutters:  
  
“I’m certain this is what he would have wanted, as well.”

 .

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> { **thomas wolfe** ▪ look homeward, angel.}
> 
>  
> 
> [happy pocky day!](https://imgur.com/a/EqrxdBc)


	3. fata morgana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandalphon doesn’t know what compels him; doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. He only knows that in this moment, in a place furled in between space and time, reality and fantasy, he will not allow any regrets. At this moment in time, he yearns. 
> 
> How could he convey his feelings towards someone who holds infinite love and devotion for an entire realm, for the selfishness Sandalphon so desperately wished the other possessed? How could he explain the lengths he would go through for this man, who sought to shoulder all the burden and evils of the world? 
> 
> There are no expectations; Sandalphon can only profess, now that he is at liberty to do so, that his heart, his core, is and always will be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how long this story is going to end up. every time i go on my outline, it just keeps getting longer. someone save me.
> 
> in this chapter, i've taken the liberty to extract some lore for a _certain phenomenon_ off another franchise since it seems to work pretty well. if you catch it pls don't kill me uwu

_He dreams of white lilies, an olive branch, and his own name, dirty and ignoble, falling reverent from camelian lips in evening blossom. He dreams of an angel, ivory crown on his head and eyes as blue and limitless as the sky overhead. They walk side by side through idyllic garden pathways as though they’ve done so a thousand times._ _He speaks freely without reserve, colored with an innocence long forgotten_ _when he looks up and notices the glow of the other’s gaze on him, forging galaxies and fostering life in a barren world of just the two of them. It is almost too much to bear._

 _For a second, it feels like he has a heart. Like champagne dripping through the attic floorboards of his core, enveloping into flesh. A memory of home; for however far his eyes and mind wander, they always return to him._ _In his hands_ _, cradled as_ _devout_ _as a holy prayer is a bouquet of purple tulips._

_Gazing back at him, he prepares himself, opening his mouth as anticipation beats its hopeful wings._

_It's time. It’s finally time._

_To his surprise, nothing comes out. Silence kisses the voice from his throat._ _When he looks down, he sees_ _the smooth, lucid sheen of the blade blooming like a gray rose from the vase of his body, but not really_ **_seeing_** _. Red taints silver, dying his clothes, the flowers, the ground._ **_Drip, drip_** _. He looks up, seeing the sky turn the color of pig iron and the sun become a sun he’s never known. Petals fall and flowers wither around him in spades, fading into dust and ash. A sandstorm conjures up dark mist, leaving roiling shadows in its wake, writhing and clotting._

_A fata morgana for him and him alone, taunting and weaving pretty illusions that he reaches for, unravelling into nothing as soon as he grazes his fingers on where it should have been._

_As if in response to his mounting frustration, laughter flits through his surroundings like a chorus of birdsong. To his left, in the distance, and then behind him. On and on it goes, rising in crescendo as other voices join, until it titters to a stop the moment he feels a presence he’s not felt before._

_He turns, coming face to face with the avatar of sin and hatred itself. His eyes, scathing in all its blankness. No light could refract from its bottomless depths. His skin the pallor of death, darkness twining around his slim figure like a spider's web. Wings as wide and black as tragedy itself._

_Talons, talons everywhere. On his head, his teeth, his hands and fingers. They reach out to him. By a precarious spell, he is bound._

_Energy sapped and limbs paralyzed, he resigns himself to fate as those claws inch ever closer, five digits imminent in its despairing approach as fire licks up his body like vines, and it_ **_burns_** _, roaring through flesh and alighting in his bloodstream, turning his skin inside and out, reinventing the very definition of agony as ravenous flames ravish all avenues of sound and touch and feeling until he knows nothing; nothing but the conflagration branding itself into his very essence, compelling him to—_

“— **invoke the shipwright’s blessing, and hereby anchor you to the realm of clarity**.”

He jolts himself awake. The first thing he sees is light. It’s bright, too bright. He can’t move a muscle, limbs locked down and paralyzed. He remembers, violently, of medical tables and scalpels, of silver instruments cruel and cold. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

" **By the powers of light vested in me as a primal beast, bind in shackles the seed of illness that plagues our lord’s heavenly light.** ”

He opens his eyes for the second time, inhales sharply and wheezes. His throat hurts and throbs like a thousand needles, as if he had screamed himself hoarse. His fingers flex erratically as he gasps for breath, eyes shot.

Wait, he can move his fingers. He’s free.

With that in mind, he lurches up and out of his bed, only to manage a few paces before stumbling over his own feet and collapsing on the ground, a puppet with strings cut.

Suddenly, it feels like waking up in Canaan all over again.

Ignoring the surge of memories that threaten to wash over him, he drags himself to the corner of the room, flattening his back against the cool walls of his room — a small comfort from the heat burning up from within. Sweat pools on the dips of his shoulder blades, on the back of his neck, cooling as his chest heaves like a man deprived of oxygen.

He feels absolutely terrible.

His eyes start closing again, but not before a hem resounds through the room, breaking his internal reverie.

“Y-you…” Sandalphon croaks as his eyes struggle to regain focus. He brings trembling fingers to his temple. “What are you doing here? Did you do something to me?”

A young boy sits perched on the corner of his bed, gazing at him with big, blue eyes. His hair, light and wispy, falls in tresses over his shoulder, wrapped in a loose braid. His hair is a little too long, but still. For a moment, Sandalphon sees someone else.

The glow from his staff dims, and he slowly brings it down; the illusion with it. His whole demeanor, which had been coiled and ready to spring at a moment's notice, unwinds into loosely apologetic. “Forgive me for trespassing into your chambers — the Grandcypher alerted me to your distress, and I came as soon as I could. How are you feeling?”

He couldn’t answer. His mind is jumbled and spinning from too many sensations. He can’t tell what is dream and reality, still caught in the waves pulling him over and under. Not trusting himself to speak, he glares at the boy, attempting to muster up an indignation he doesn’t have.

Noa stands up, taking a few steps towards the prone Sandalphon slowly, carefully. Much to his chagrin, as though approaching a wounded animal.

He scowls, repelling the sudden instinct to plaster himself further against the wall and curl up into a ball. He locks his limbs in place, forcing himself to stay still. If the boy notices the strain of his effort, he hides it well. Instead, he takes it as a sign to speak.

“Bless the heavens you’re awake — I’ve been incredibly worried.” he expels a breath, tone several shades of relief. “It is only thanks to our shared elemental affinity that I was able to retrieve you without fail. Had anyone other than those with the preponderance of light attempted to help you, I sincerely doubt they would have succeeded.” He crouches, offering a hand.

With a glaze in his eyes, he lets the hand haul him up with minimal protest. “Help me— help with what? I was just—” Sandalphon pauses, letting go. He looks down at his hands, transfixed on its planes and ridges, its calloused edges. It’s less clammy than he expects, but he feels delirious all the same. It had felt real, too real. Even now, he could almost see the burns on his skin, the terror that ignited in his core. “—dreaming. I'm fine. Do you go to everyone who has a simple night terror?”

Noa merely stares at him, concerned.

Sandalphon is bemused. “What is it?”

“Sandalphon….” he says solemnly. “Primal beasts like us do not dream.”

Oh, right. How had he forgotten about that?

“You were caught in something much larger. If I hadn’t intervened, I fear it would have caused…” he trails off, looking uncertain. “...unmitigated disaster, I suppose.”

“Destroying the world without even trying this time?” Sandalphon laughs wryly. “Can’t say I saw that coming.”

Noa purses his lips, evidently not sharing in his humor. “Forgive me, that was a hyperbole. At most you would have woken up everyone in the ship with the influx of power you subconsciously exhibited.”

Power that has no business emerging out of the blue. There can only be one explanation.

“In other words, it’s the supreme’s power,” Sandalphon concludes. “It’s acting up because I can’t control it.”

“I’m inclined to agree."

Sandalphon grimaces. All the more proof that his body isn’t meant to house the apex of godhood itself. What more does he need?

"However, it's nothing you need to worry yourself over.” the primal laughs suddenly, surprising the primarch. “You’ve only just started out, after all. It’s perfectly normal.”

“ _Normal_?” he snorts. “Please. You just said that I nearly lost control of myself. I don’t even know what happened. You call that perfectly normal?”

“It is.” he replies, staying ever calm. The man huffs under his breath, looking away. “Sandalphon, please listen to me. I understand this must come as a shock to you, but we all manifest our powers for the first time in many different ways. Just as you are struggling to harness yours, so did we, once upon a time. The stronger our gifts are, the harder it is to fully grasp.” his voice lowers. “Try not to be so hard on yourself.”

As if he has any other option. Sandalphon doesn’t pursue the topic. “So...whatever it was that you had to wake me up from...what was that? That’s never happened to me before.”

“I may have an idea,” Noa says. “But first, if I may ask, what exactly did you see?”

He doesn’t like the inquisitive, almost knowing look in Noa’s eyes. The boy may be ancient from the lens of humanity, but he is still much younger than Sandalphon. How much more knowledgeable could he be compared to Sandalphon who had existed from nearly the genesis of Astral reign? When they had been more concerned with laying out the groundwork of the world than that of war with the skydwellers?

But then again, Noa was born with a purpose. Christened from birth as a primal beast of shipwrights, he had been assigned with the task of building countless Astral battleships for the War, including the one they were standing in right now. Sandalphon didn’t have to ask him to know that the Grandcypher is the crown of his achievement. He sees the sparkle in his eyes, in everyone’s eyes, when they look upon the vessel that had endured all manner of hell and high water. Sometimes it would come back various degrees into decrepitude, but it always, _always_ , came back proud and alive.

He remembers the unimaginable awe he felt when he found out the ship had crossed the notorious Celestial Straits to seek the unreachable land of Canaan — a strait specifically engineered into place by Astrals to keep out ships like the Grandcypher.

The same Astrals who excelled for having a tireless work ethic, working themselves to the bone and leaving no stone unturned. Even afterwards, they would not rest until they were confident the margin of error was narrowed to negligible amounts, if not gone altogether. They were never known to fail, and yet.

The Grandcypher had emerged victorious, and while it had not come out unscathed — quite the opposite, actually—  it bore countless battle scars like hard-earned trophies. Not only that, it had challenged the beast of unparalleled destruction, Avatar, and lived to tell the tale. It didn’t take a fool to see every single person onboard had dedicated to risking life and limb to keep the Grandcypher safe and loved.

A devotion carved from the hands of the boy standing before him.

If anything, what would some nobody like Sandalphon know that the other wouldn’t?

Resigned, Sandalphon decides to recount his dream — whatever was left of it that wasn’t blurred by each passing second.

"I see,” Noa nods without a hint of prejudice. “This is troubling, indeed. I had expected you to grow into your own, but I hadn’t expected the gravity of these visions. We should consider making haste before it is too late.”

“Wait,” he says, stopping the smaller primal in his tracks. “Visions? What are you talking about? You don’t need to take this so seriously.”

Noa turns around to gaze at him. “If my conjectures ring true...what you had just witnessed is a sign that you are awakening into your own power as the supreme one.”

Awakening….into the Supreme Primarch?

“The supreme — that can’t be.” Sandalphon shakes his head. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that there is nothing adorning his back. “I don’t feel the power. Isn’t it still dormant inside me?”

He’d meant to pose a statement, but it had instead come out as a question. So much for feigned certainty, he berates himself.

The shipwright primal tosses him a strange look, but doesn’t think too much of it. “Nothing stays asleep for long, as I’m sure you are aware.” Sandalphon doesn’t know whether the primal was insinuating his escape from Pandemonium or the emergence of Lucilius’ legacy, but he couldn't refute either. “All that slumbers will one day awaken. Even now, I’m certain you can feel it stirring.”

Noa’s right. As much as he hates to admit it, he feels different — a slight charge to his system, like a hum of constant electricity running on sleep mode.

“I hate this,” he blurts out without thinking. “I never asked for this. All I wanted — all I wanted was for him to live… not waste his power on me. I can’t even feel it, feel _him_ , anymore. This accursed power is turning me into someone I don’t know.” He had lost sight of himself ever since he found out his purpose, but at least it was by his own volition, and not some external power ravaging him from inside out like a parasite. “I’m not meant to wield it, and I should have never inherited it.”

Noa’s eyes soften, his hand drifting closer to Sandalphon, who raises his hand to stop his advance. “I’m sorry. This must be hard on you.”

“You have no idea.” Sandalphon chuckles humorlessly. “To think something like this would turn out to be my punishment.” He falls on his bed. “Ironic, isn't it? The Astrals must be laughing their heads off from beyond their graves.”

He doesn't have to look at Noa, he already hears the disapproval in his voice. “The gift of clairvoyance is not a punishment. Often times, it can present a clarity that you sorely need.”

“Clairvoyance...” So that’s what it’s called. Closing his eyes, he brings his legs closer to himself. “I see. That explains why he chose to guard the lock instead of stopping me. But then why didn’t he use it to save himself?”

“I’m afraid you’re sorely mistaken.”

He’d mostly been muttering to himself, not expecting Noa to understand what he’s talking about. But it isn’t Noa who speaks up next, but Olivia, who appears at the door, crossing her arms against it and — _wait, had the door been open this whole time?_

Her eyes, crimson against the dim light of the room, seem to emit an almost sinister glow. “Lucifer never had clairvoyance.”

Sandalphon frowns. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” she says as she pulls herself off. “Noa...would you mind?”

He dips his head. “Certainly not. Whatever business you have with him will not leave this room, that I can guarantee.”

She blinks, clearly expecting another answer. It seemed clear she wanted him to leave, but either Noa was aware and feigned innocence or he was truly oblivious. Sandalphon didn't know him well enough to guess, but he watches as she knits her eyebrows together, stance stiffening not unlike a panther raising her hackles.

Before he can think twice, he speaks up. “It’s alright, Olivia. Let him stay. He’s…. he’s here for me.”

She looks at him, then Noa. After a moment, she shakes her head. “Very well, then. If you’re fine with it, I suppose there is no harm to his presence.” She turns fully to Sandalphon. “When I left Pandemonium, I gathered intel on the former Supreme Primarch. It wasn’t easy, but joining Djeeta’s crew had proved to be most helpful. Using Lucifer’s first point of contact with Djeeta as reference, I managed to trace his signature back to the ruins that had once functioned as Astral laboratories. I discovered a few things, including what you could say was his blueprint. I noticed that while there were many idiosyncrasies that only the supreme possessed, clairvoyance was not one of them.” At the blatant skepticism clouding his face, she presses on. “Think about it. If he had the ability, wouldn’t he have thought to avert the dark legacy’s awakening ahead of time?”

“He wouldn’t.” Sandalphon sneers. “You know he’s a stickler for the pact.”

“Only if it concerned skydweller affairs. We’re talking about the Astral’s legacy, here." She raises a fine eyebrow. "You don’t honestly think he would stand by and let his creator’s legacy destroy his beloved realm.”

She's right — he wouldn't.

Tense silence stretches into the room, placing him into a chokehold. Suddenly, it feels far too cramped.

“So you’re saying,” Sandalphon says slowly. “I manifested my own abilities?” He lets the words sink into the atmosphere, and runs his hands through his hair. “What utter nonsense. That explains absolutely nothing. I saw him myself; I held him, and when he disappeared, I felt his signature enter me. There’s no way—”

“Believe what you want, Sandalphon.” she cuts in, irritated. “But it’s an indisputable fact. Pay heed to what I am about say, for I will only say it once — your powers are your own. Not Lucifer’s, nor the Astrals. The proof is in front of you. What you choose to make of it is up to you, and you alone.”

Without waiting for an answer, she looks at Noa. “If you’re going to discuss our plans with Djeeta going forward, let me accompany you. I may be of some help.”

He smiles. “Much obliged, Olivia.”

Casting one last glance at the primal on the bed, Olivia turns tail and walks off without another word.

Noa, who had made his way to the door, pauses. “Sandalphon.”

Predictably, he gets no reply. It doesn't deter him.

“It may not be my place to say this, but I sincerely pray that one day, you are able to embrace yourself as you are.” Noa says softly. “For there is none more suited for the mantle than you. Of that, I am certain. Until then, please rest. We will take care of things in your stead.”

The door closes with a muted click, marking a subdued finality.

He feels a thousand years younger again when he buries his head in his knees, pretending that the whole world isn’t out to get him, that he’s only a small speck in the grand scheme of things. If he curls up a little tighter, the shadows would swallow him, and the researchers won’t find him.

“What is it that you see in me?” he murmurs, asking no one in particular. “I can’t even see anything.”

Only silence answers his forlorn plea — as it always had been, and will always be.

Unbeknownst to him, Noa stands with his back to Sandalphon’s door, his expression mired in wistfulness as he looks down. He inhales deeply before stepping away from the door, careful to disguise any indication of movement.

When he sees a shadow cast on the floor, he looks up to see a man gazing at him, a thoughtful expression on his face as he stands half hidden in the flickering shadows of the night lamp illuminating the hallways.

“Ah,” Noa says, straightening. “So you’ve sensed it, as well. Are you here to see him, too?”

A guileless smile. His head shakes slightly. “No, that’s quite alright. I had faith you would put the situation under control.” Without waiting for a reply, he glides past Noa, going on his way.

Noa’s eyes follow without meaning to, taking note of the way the man moves without sound, almost like a phantom. His face is uncovered, bare for all to see — and yet, for some reason, it doesn’t feel like Noa can stand to look at him for too long.

Clarity envelops him like a veil, and suddenly, he knows.

If nothing else, at least he understands...this. He’s gone through it himself, with someone he holds very dear.

“So do I,” Noa suddenly speaks up. The man pauses in his tracks, head tilted ever so slightly in his direction. “I have faith that things will go well. For the two of you.”

“That makes two of you now.” he chuckles lightly, looking like was reminded of an inside joke. He dips his head. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

Noa watches as his back disappears from view, gaze lingering a few seconds longer before sighing and turning the other direction.

He’s done all he can, at this point. If anything — if _anyone_ can help the new Supreme Primarch now, it must be...

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Sandalphon has never liked relying on sedatives to power through the rest of a sleepless night, but it had done its work anyway. Technically, he doesn't even need sleep, but that so-called _vision_ had done a number on him that he knew he had to rest somehow unless he wanted to leave his room the next day a completely nervous wreck and attract questions he doesn’t want to answer.

He remembers the days right after they had taken out Avatar, when the pain of losing Lucifer was still very much palpable on his face — circles under his eyes as dark as they were incriminating, the weight of his shoulders sagging as though the oppression of centuries had finally caught up to him.

Sandalphon had been approached by one of the healers on board, a pale-haired Erune with sharp, cheeky eyes that Sandalphon wants nothing to do with. Alas, it was his turn to be looked at, and the Erune simply wouldn't take no for an answer.

He held out a tiny pouch with concise instructions — _take a pinch of this and steep in warm water. Drink it in the eventide, afore sleep._

Sandalphon had told him, very pointedly, that he did not require sleep, much less aid.

 _No, you don't._ The other man agreed, with an air of mystery moored in his voice. _You need help not dreaming._

Exasperation had spurred Sandalphon into accepting the gift, if only to drive the Erune away.

It had laid innocently on his bedside, awaiting the day it would serve its purpose, or be discarded.

That Erune had known more than he let on. What he didn't say with his mouth, he said with his eyes, cinereal in its intense scrutiny. It unnerved him, reminded him too much of the researchers.

(Not to mention there was something eerily _familiar_ about his voice — Sandalphon refuses to think about it.)

And yet he couldn't deny the possibility.

He must have known that Sandalphon's dreams would betray him, force him to come face-to-face to exactly what measure of burden lay in store for him, a future without the one he cared about most by his side.

Sandalphon had forced himself out of bed, drawing on a simple touch of his power to heat up a glass of water. He reaches for the bag, tosses in a pinch of powder without giving himself the chance to think twice, and downed it in a single gulp.

It feels like only a second had passed before he opens his eyes next, the vestiges of fatigue and despair from last night gone without a trace.

When he makes his way to the kitchen, coffee maker tucked protectively under his arm, he takes note of a few new faces and the absence of some familiar ones. Good — at least he won’t stand out too much this time.

He enters the kitchen to see the Singularity and Lyria leaning against the counter, chatting up a storm. Katalina is also with them, as well as Rosetta and Io. For a split second, he fears the worst. But when they spot him, faces lighting up in various tones of greeting, he quickly finds they've been left none the wiser.

(Io looks at him like she still wants to make good on that relationship counseling she promised. Katalina's smile is polite, albeit a little forced around the edges. Rosetta — he can't read the rose primal at all. Nevertheless, it's a far cry from the dreariness of their first encounter.)

He thinks he can finally move forward.

The next few days observe him going through the regular motions without any nuisance; mainly coffee and morning rounds. Not much else was expected of him, after all. The skies are clearer than he has ever remembered seeing them, and aside from the occasional island detour and petty skirmish he tags along for— much to the never-ending surprise of the main crew that can’t seem to get used to the idea of Sandalphon voluntarily _helping out_ — there’s not much else he can do.

He supposes there's meditation; an activity he picked up from watching his predecessor do it so often. If anything, it’s almost exclusively the only thing that man does when he is manifest; apart from tending to worldly issues, the Astrals, and Sandalphon.

 _The Supreme Primarch’s duty is to keep watch over the fifth element and its cycle_ , he patiently clarified with a placid curve of his lips. _If left duly unchecked, the ether’s combined nature of light and dark may upset the balance of the skies, and we will surely have a terrible predicament on our hands._

When Sandalphon first took on what he remembered as the lotus position —bringing the left leg up in a crossed position so that the sole of the foot faces up and rests in a straight line across the other leg— he’d been remarkably nervous. He had no teacher. He couldn’t call upon the other primarchs for guidance, and he was certainly unversed in the ways of asceticism.  

Thankfully, his fears had turned out to be unfounded. Despite not having any specialized training whatsoever, it came as a relief to know that so long as the power lay dormant within him, nature proceeded to take over its own course.

...After some time, at least. The first few times he attempted it, he’d only succeeded in opening the floodgates of something else _entirely_ , and he may or may not have avoided the act like a plague for a while afterwards.

Perhaps the only real element of surprise was the few times he's been approached by random crew members looking to make small talk. Strangely enough, these were the people who had seemed almost too frightened to approach him not too long ago. He couldn’t understand the logic. To what extent did the caprice of mortals overrule their general conduct?

Finding the whole affair unnerving, he’d excused himself quickly each and every time. It was still hard to let his guard down, it seemed.

(This is exactly what he’d wanted, so why did he feel mildly disappointed in himself?)

Tonight, Djeeta had taken a sizable chunk of their crew to attend to some monumental beast of legend. _It’s a bimonthly tradition_ , she had explained cheerily upon seeing his nonplussed look. _We team up with other skyfarers to take down big game together. It’s a great way to meet new people!_

She had looked like she wanted to say something else; likely the automatic invitation that Sandalphon is sure lingered on her tongue, but she held it back as though she suddenly paid heed to whom it was she was talking to. Surprising, since the girl was only second to Lyria and Vyrn for the most meddlesome. And yet at that instance, she merely regarded him — _was that disquiet he saw, or was it just him?_ — before clapping her hand on his shoulder, effectively dispelling the transitory display.

Over her shoulder, the last of her entourage had trickled onto port, where the rest had congregated to await their charismatic leader.

 _Take care, Sandalphon._ she said with an easy grin. _We’ll be back soon._

And she had left, a rippling veil of peace settling like a boon on the ship.

Night soon falls, the heat of the day surrendering to the cool onshore breeze. The Grandcypher is docked, sitting proud vigil in skyport, lamplights flickering on as the shadows spread, faint music and laughter heard from the tavern in the distance. There’s muted chatter coming from the faraway plaza, people leaving the warmth of their homes to partake in the bosom of night. From doorways curl smoke of cigars, and cooking arcing lazily in the night air. Harmless magic swirls in another, a host of pranks by a pair of magician siblings, earning them a stern reprimand afterwards.

Children walk past, gazing with unfiltered reverence at the massive hulk of the Grandcypher as they tug excitedly on their parents’ sleeves, making starry-eyed proclamations of a future they know nothing about. Their parents laugh and gaze at them as if they believed those children could brave all that the world had to offer, even for that brief moment.

Not too long ago, he had sought to smite these people without a shred of remorse.

Without further ado, he turns his back and heads to his room, ignoring the way his feet drag ever so slightly on the floor.

He should have known something was amiss the instant he opened the door. Instead of seeing the standard, modest decor of his abode, he finds himself standing on what seemed to be a cliff dropping straight down into nothing. Numerous clouds line the horizon above and below, a blanket tinted red from the fire of the sky. Fissures of rock run through the ground at his feet, a volcano in the distance spewing gas and ash. It infuses the air with thick and heavy sulfur, and he scrunches his nose. He could sense traces of magic in the air; and not just any kind, either.

This is not the work of a mere mortal. It’s a reality landscape, convincingly substantial and almost too real in this bizarre realm of phantasia. If he didn’t know any better, he’d believe that he’d somehow miraculously transported himself to a place he’s never been before.

First, that dumb vision. Now _this_? He’s going to wring the neck of whoever thought it was a good idea to play him like this.

He narrows his eyes, scanning the environment around him with a critical eye. Admittedly, he had never seen such a perfectly bounded field. Someone had constructed and expanded this dimension to encase him inside — a projection of one's inner thoughts into the outside, creating a world completely cut off from normal reality.

As his mind raced to make sense of this eerie phenomenon, a recollection from his patrol a few days ago comes flooding back.

 _There's something I think you must know, Sandalphon._ Olivia piped up suddenly, when they were far enough from the Grandcypher. They hadn't talked since that night, but there was an urgency in her demeanor as she invited him out this time that Sandalphon couldn't just turn his back on. It was likely she had been waiting for this opportunity; for what, Sandalphon was about to find out. _I’m not sure if the Singularity has deemed it fit to tell you, but..._

The only feasible way to manifest an entire enclosed world is by the adept switching of the Ego and the World while keeping the boundary the same. It was a highly dangerous knowledge guarded with absolute vehemence by archangels, lest it tipped the balance of the skies — it was a wonder that even a purposeless angel like him was deemed necessary to be informed of such.

 _There is a primal on the ship who strongly resembles that person_. She admitted slowly, and he felt the air around her darkening. _His aura is similar._ _I can't get a grasp on it._

After all, archangels  — origin beasts closest to representing the natural order of the World — cannot emulate a bounded field, regardless of the mana and power they accumulate forcibly or otherwise.

 _Nonsense_ , Sandalphon dismissed, noncommittal. _If you're talking about him, that's impossible. He's the only one of his kind. I would know. I haven't sensed his presence at all._

The Astrals had only ever granted one the supreme privilege. Only one had the power to bend and assimilate the World's will to their own. Only one held sole sovereign over the skies, possessing a near infinite amount of magical energy that could effectively counteract the World's instinctive attempts to crush an unnatural phenomenon such as this. A power only one should have.

 _I wish I could believe you._ Olivia brought her hands together, willing herself to continue. _And yet, had the similarities ended at their glamour, our intelligence would not have proved so onerous. This man eludes us all. His true identity, his purpose, his goals, the extent of his ability. No matter who we ask, only vague responses are given. The stories are fabricated, inconsistent. We've attempted to intercept him during a number of occasions, but he evades us with exceptional prudence._

But that's impossible. He was dead. Sandalphon himself witnessed firsthand his life force trickling away into nothing. The six wings, heavy and imposing on Sandalphon's back, were undeniably not his own.

 _Why are you telling me this?_ he retorted, heavy with irritation and doubt. He was naïve to think she’d had her fill feeding him ineptitudes where his predecessor was concerned.

With the facts glaring in his face, it's extremely difficult not to jump to conclusions.

 _Because I believe he'll make contact with you._ Olivia asserted. _And when that happens, I want you to be ready._

Sandalphon takes a deep breath, pushing down every little mundane thing assaulting his nerves, and the air trembles in fervid anticipation.

"I see you finally decided to reveal yourself."

_He goes by the name—_

“ _Lucio_ , was it?"

When Olivia mentioned their striking resemblance, doubt had wedged itself deep in his stomach. While she was one of the very few whose words he had no reason to discredit, the notion that anyone (aside from his creator) could imitate his splendor was the very paragon of incredulity.

“To tell you the truth, I find this whole affair very distasteful. I don’t know how you tricked everyone into believing that you're someone you're not, but you won't fool me.”

The air shimmers, and Sandalphon is ready. He had to hand it to him, this imposter had waited to gain the upper hand by luring the unassuming primarch into this strange dimension as soon as the Singularity had left the ship; not that having her stay onboard would have changed anything.

It was his responsibility to deal with these kinds of nuisances by himself. Especially if they attempt the incorrigible folly of usurping his predecessor's identity.

“Just so you know, I won’t stand for this." He stands with legs spread, feet planted firmly on the ground. His hand drifts towards his sheath, already imagining its blade drawn. "Show yourself, charlatan, so that I may have the pleasure of putting an end to your impudent little—”

The ripple in the air bursts into brilliant gloryshine, brushstrokes of vernal light illuminating this vision, turning everything around them into mere silhouettes of substance, a nebula nondescript.

He opens his eyes, not realizing he had shielded them in the first place. When the pervasion fades, a being stands in its place; six tremendous white wings, flaring out like the rays of sun in all its sun-kissed splendor.

“—farce.” he trails off, stunned straight into speechlessness.

 _No_ , his core takes a nose dive to the pit of his stomach. _No, no._ This is all wrong. Nothing could possibly have prepared him for this — for the person who chose to materialize before him, the spitting image of the man he's had so many feelings for in the past two millennia.

His hair, dyed in platinum blond, is naturally coiffed, flawless from blood and grime. His lustrous twin pools shine a cobalt blue, a clear antithesis of dull and unseeing. The lingering darkness around them caves under the resplendence that shapes him, forcing them to its knees in absolute subservience. He shines with a familiar radiance that burns, and Sandalphon doesn’t know if it’s more painful to look at him or look away.

Any and all of the words he had prepared falls to the ground, much like the vestiges of the person that had slipped through his fingers for the very last time.

When he speaks, the fractured pillars holding Sandalphon’s core crumbles in on itself.

"It seems my reputation has preceded me." He looks completely unruffled, smile blinding as ever. It sucks the oxygen from Sandalphon's lungs. "I'm delighted to finally make your acquaintance, Sandalphon. Please do forgive me for this rather… unorthodox first meeting. Had I the option of approaching you in a less portentous manner, I’d not spare another thought. As it stands, I hadn't expected for you to be surrounded by such attention from our well-intentioned peers." He lands gracefully on the ground, wings ruffling before he folds all six behind himself. "Privacy is difficult to come by these days, I hope you can understand."

What is he saying? He suddenly can’t understand a thing. He speaks the same language, but he might as well be an alien.

Does it even matter?

"Y-you—” Sandalphon stutters. "Have you no shame?"

The smooth surprise distorts his calm, a deviation from his script. "Pardon?"

Anger bubbles in him like a fountain, unwarranted and justified.

"Who do you think you are?” Sandalphon blusters, composure splintering as flashes of white streak across in his vision. “Parading around with that face, that personality, invoking a field for such a trivial purpose, showing yourself to me without sparing a thought for how I feel? You're always like—" he halts, catching his breath. _Damn_ , he couldn't think straight. "Who are you? Where are we? And what do you want from me?"

Why him? Why _now_?

" _Sandalphon_ ," he says in that voice, and _oh_ , Sandalphon didn't realize how much he missed Lucifer saying his name until now. "My apologies. I did not realize that my appearance would trouble you so. But there is no other way. If it shall placate you, I will try to accommodate your inquiries as best I can. Will that be acceptable?"

“The only acceptable thing I know is striking you down where you stand.” Sandalphon crosses his arms. He should; he knows he should. And yet. "But fine, I’ll entertain you for the time being. Speak."

He doesn’t trust he could, anyway.

Lucio obliges without question. "To preface, we are standing on the blessed ground that straddles the sky realm as you all know it," Lucio begins, a somber note to his timbre. "—and the Crimson Horizon.”

Sandalphon blinks, momentarily broken out of his stupor. Did he hear that right?

“This is a place where the threads of fate converge, a place where past, present, and future are of no consequence. As such, this island bears no connection to the lands above nor below.”

“How — how can that be?” the brunet blinks, his most recent dilemma forgotten. “Once you fall beneath the buoyancy threshold, nothing awaits you other than the fathomless abyss of the Crimson Horizon. There can be no in-between. This makes no sense.”

The rebellion long past had hinged on this contingency. In spite of its ultimate failure, he’d seek solace in the fact that at least he had come close. Had he been wrong this whole time, down to even its fundamental core?

“As the majestic Ca Ong swims through the skies, the Edgelands also bears residence to its own protector.” Lucio supplies. “Regardless of what you believe, this is where your path will lead you.”

In that moment, the ground beneath them rumbles, a gentle trill of a seism he could easily mistake for the volcano’s inner workings — if not for the phonic song oscillating in the air all around him. Low and high notes weaving into a symphony of nature, ending in a lilt of a whistle spun gossamer.

Suddenly, he understands the nature of magic surrounding him.

“We’re standing on a primal beast.” He says in disbelief.

Lucio nods, seemingly pleased with his epiphany. “A great crisis is incoming, an aspect of which you must have already foreseen. It is a calamity much worse than the one you and the otherworldly being have wrought these past two years.”

His tone is a matter-of-fact, candid and free from prejudice. Still, hearing it so directly from his voice — even if it’s not really _him_ — feels like a brutal kiss of knuckles digging into his sternum, breaking through skin.

“Belial is no otherworldly being,” he deflects, swallowing the painful jolt of his core. “He’s just a wretched fallen.” Or so he says. He didn’t have horns, unlike Olivia and Azazel.

“Perhaps so, but his hooded companion surely is not.” Lucio turns to look towards a structure in the distance, and it’s only after Sandalphon’s gaze follows that he realizes why the man had shown him this place. The dark building is Pandemonium — at least, the imitation of it.

 _Like everything else in this dimension_ , he thinks darkly.

“That man,” Lucio continues, seemingly oblivious to the other’s inner turmoil. “He is the Singularity of his own world. Should his plans involving Lucilius’ legacy come to light, there is no telling what would happen with the two worlds.”

“You mean to say he came from the Crimson Horizon.”

“That is correct.” Lucio smiles with no real warmth. “Beelzebub was once an Astral, himself. The rebellion had uncovered conspiracies hushed and terrible, including his alignment with Lucilius. Both were swiftly apprehended — the demagogue slain, and the other condemned to the depths of the skies, where he was fully expected to perish or wander for all eternity. Call it a death sentence, if you will. As it turned out, this was our first oversight.” His hands, curled loosely at his side, stiffens. “In due course, the underside of the world; a bleak hellscape suckling at the refuse of all creation and lore, became his very own. With every pact he struck, every alliance he nurtured, he grew stronger, and soon evolved into a form of anathema none of us could have ever preordained.”

“I see.” Sandalphon says, bowing his head as if in understanding.

Then he lunges forward, grabbing the man by the scruff of his collar. “— is what you want me to say, but you must take me for a fool.”

He didn’t even flinch, like he knew this was going to happen. Was the initial surprise a faux pas, then? Had he been so certain that Sandalphon wouldn’t kill him?

It irritates him to no end.

“How do you know all of this? Who are you, really? You’re not Lucifer. You can’t be.” _He’s dead_ , Sandalphon wants to say. This imposter may share the same physical features, but his aura is different from Lucifer’s.

Lucio doesn’t answer for a long time. He holds Sandalphon’s gaze, eyes conveying an emotion he cannot name. Before the primarch could pick at it, he looks up at the heavens and closes his eyes.

“Forgive me, master. I believe it’s about time.” he exhales deeply. “Time I imparted the truth about myself… and about the Crimson Horizon.”

Before Sandalphon realizes it, he’s holding his breath.

Lucio’s eyes shine a brilliant blue as he gazes upon Sandalphon, an abundant cornucopia of obscurity tucked within.

“I am one who calls the Crimson Horizon my home.”

The next few moments are a blur in Sandalphon’s mind, Lucio’s winding explanation sending his brain into maximum overdrive. According to him, when Lucifer banished Beelzebub into the Crimson Horizon, intuition dictated that wouldn’t be the last he would see of him. As an archangel, he is able to assimilate himself into the atmosphere and be everywhere at once. But the depths of the skies is another story entirely.

Unbeknownst to everyone else, he decided to cast a portion of his own consciousness, fashioned into a vessel of his own likeness, down with the exiled astral, weak enough that it would go undetected by Beelzebub, and yet strong enough to act independently. This cost a fracture in Lucifer’s psyche; a price he was more than willing to pay.

He had given up his persona, his emotions, his desires, his own free will and lease on life to ensure that the Astral could be kept under constant surveillance.

“The last thing my master had told me before I departed—” Lucio continues. “—was of his wish for the skyrealm to know peace and prosperity. My goal is to eradicate all threats of otherworldly beings to ensure this outcome. That is why I have been given life.”

“Your master…” Sandalphon’s eyes widen. “You can’t mean… _Lucifer_?”

“Indeed.” he cocks his head. “Is that strange? He was the one who created me.”

Sandalphon looks at Lucio, really looks at him. The deep azure of his eyes that normally conceal secrets are bare and open, the set of his shoulders relaxed — he doesn’t think he remembers Lucifer ever looking like that, not for a long time.

Where Lucifer would flawlessly evade and counter most of his questions, Lucio yields to them all with naked, earnest eyes.

Come to think of it, the rebellion had changed Lucifer, locked him up somewhere Sandalphon could never hope to reach. Up until the day he personally delivered Sandalphon to his infernal prison, there was no mistaking the cool distance he radiated, the light he emanated that was a little less warm than he was used to. His skin was cold to the touch, his touch callously impersonal. His perpetual smile fell flat, hollow and empty.

Wishful thinking convinced him that his exile had struck a chord within the ever impenetrable supreme primarch; only if to curb the growing despair and resentment Sandalphon fostered towards him. But it was only that — wishful thinking.

Lucifer had never been the same again. Long lost was the man who would frequently invite him to enjoy coffee together and converse of nothing in particular; the man who had come home sopping wet, bangs plastered to his face as his magnificent wings bogged down to the floor, trailing massive puddles with every step, innocently explaining to an overwrought Sandalphon of his grand venture to meditate under the waterfalls by intimation of his spiritual-minded skydweller peers.

All of that had seemed like a dream reaching a fever pitch — the longer Sandalphon festered in the pestilence of the dungeon, the more he succumbed. They were mere fantasies concocted by the manipulative necrosis of Pandemonium, a bait crafted of faux nostalgia dangling forever out of his reach. Delusions that Sandalphon had no problem in indulging, even recounting to his newfound allies. After all, what harm can a few pretty white lies do?

But it had been true, all of it. He could see the very selfsame innocence reflected back in genuinely hopeful eyes, a sentiment he believed was a paradise lost.

“You _are_ Lucifer,” Sandalphon breathes, and it takes all he can to not topple where he stands. “He lost a part of himself to create you. You...you’re not a clone; or a spare, not like me. You’re simply….a part of Lucifer.”

Not all had been lost.

He had never sent a prayer in his life — not in the lab, not in the dreary bastille. There was no need to; there was no god nor deity that would listen to a hapless recluse like him, and Lucifer was the only god he had ever known. When he had been dragged away from the crumbling ruins of Canaan during the throes of mind numbing shock, it felt like leaving his soul behind. Grief had paralyzed his core, despair driving him to cast his first and last prayer to the skies.

He knew of its futility. It was a shallow comfort of a wish that would never reach him, for Lucifer's consciousness had faded away entirely into the netherworld — there was no one left to answer his call. Nothing but the ghosts of the past that lingered like a scorned lover.

He could have never imagined being so wrong. A fragment of him is still here. Together with him, _alive_.

He was convinced he had lost him forever.

“Sandalphon? Sandalphon!” Lucio snaps him out of it, looking uncharacteristically alarmed and worried. His fingers hover near his face, unsure and hesitant. “Are you...crying?”

Sandalphon blinks, realizing the position he’s in. He'd fallen to his knees, the other rushing forward to steady him. He bows his head, scrunching his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the tears falling down his face. “S-sorry. Just give me a moment. Let me...let me stay like this for awhile.” Uncertain, Lucio starts to draw back, and the space between them suddenly cools in spite of their surroundings. Without thinking, his hand strikes out. “No, it’s okay. I don't mind. P-Please, I just need to…” He’s alive, he’s here, he’s _real_ , and oh it’s all too good to be true —

“I’m here, Sandalphon.” he murmurs, as if reading his mind. “I’m here.”

That’s all he needs.

The two bask in silence, the steady heartbeat of the volcano, the pulse of its warmth their only other companion. Fire crackles in the distance, and it sounds like weeping glass, closer than it should be.

“I’m sorry.”

He pretends his fingers aren’t shaking as he feels timid ones curl in his hair, the endearing gesture a strange contrast to his words. “Why?”

“I wish I could understand the depth of your feelings for my master. Truly, I do.” he says. “But... I am not the person you spent half of your life with, nor can I ever be a replacement for him.”

Sandalphon doesn't understand, either. He doesn't understand so many things, like the boundaries of where Lucio began and Lucifer ended, where Lucifer began and Lucio ended. He doesn't even understand himself anymore — whether he wants to return Lucio's embrace, or if he wants to push Lucio away. It's far too complicated for him to wrap his mind around.

He realizes, with startling clarity, that he doesn't care.

“You may not be the same Lucifer I know, but you’re still him.” he swallows the thickness in his throat as his voice dies down to a whisper, but still audible nonetheless. “That’s more than enough for me.”

He feels the breath hitch from the man whose arms are still wrapped around him, but lets the silence hold them in its cradle.

Wordlessly, Sandalphon watches as pure ivory feathers fall around them like a rain of snowflakes — Lucio’s wings had extended beyond its tight cocoon, curled loosely around the pair, almost as if shielding them from the world. For a few moments, Sandalphon thinks he feels heavier, though not in a literal sense. It’s as if he’s more rooted to the present now, more than ever, now that he’s here in reality to stay, rather than living on a self-inflicted timeline. He finds that he doesn't mind it at all. For once, the crushed hopes, revenge, and regret that define his existence no longer defines him. It feels like being freed, being _forgiven_.

Then Lucio pushes him away, gently.

“You’ve helped me come to a realization,” The back of his knuckle brushes against the curve of Sandalphon’s cheek in a thoughtful gesture. “I know now that everything has led up to this moment in time, in the here and now. I will never forget this for as long as I draw breath. Thank you… for giving my life meaning.” His hand falls away as he moves back. “I had my reservations, at first. But I see now I was wrong. I’m very happy I met you.”

As if on cue, the whale lets out a guttural wail, and the landscape starts falling apart. It happens all too fast for Sandalphon to keep track. Cracks appear on the ground as the fabric of the atmosphere begins to tear. The volcano sputters violently, hacking up ash, lava, rock matter, and the whole world is thrown off its axis, leveling mountains and shaking stars from the sky as it falls in shining rivulets.

Amidst this beautiful, bizarre chaos, Lucio stands at the center of it all, a beacon of pure light in a sea of darkness. Unflinching, unmoving, his eyes only for him.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Sandalphon chokes out. “Lucif—" Lucifer, but not _Lucifer_. He’s— "Lucio, you can’t—”

“Hush, young one. There is nothing to fear,” he reassures, expression unchanging. Falling stardust reflects on the platinum strands of his hair, basking him in an ephemeral constellation. His entire being glows, and the lines that contour him beginning to quiver. “Our time together has merely come to an end.”

“No!” He cries out, feeling his core careening out of the cage of his ribs. He’s tempted to rip it out of his chest himself — at least it won’t be as harrowing. “Will we meet again?”

Only silence greets his question, a smile that answers everything and nothing at all.

He looks so lost, so soulful, so lonely.

So familiar.

Sandalphon doesn’t know what compels him; doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. He only knows that in this moment, in a place furled in between space and time, reality and fantasy, he will not allow any regrets.

At this moment in time, Sandalphon yearns. How could he convey his feelings towards someone who holds infinite love and devotion for an entire realm, for the selfishness Sandalphon so desperately wished the other possessed? How could he explain the lengths he would go through for this man, who sought to shoulder all the burden and evils of the world onto his own shoulders?

There are no expectations; Sandalphon can only profess, now that he is at liberty to do so, that his heart, his core, is and always will be...

The last thing he sees before he pulls away is Lucifer, sky blue eyes wide with naked wonder and incomprehension, finger lifting to his lips, bearing the expression of someone whose entire world had just unfurled for the first time, the ground he stood rooted on for several millennia falling away.

And soon enough, the ground gives way, and Sandalphon is falling, _falling_ , **_falling_** , and —

— jolts awake, feeling wetness streak down the plane of his cheeks, hands bunching up the sheets around him in a death grip. His core throttles wildly in his ribs, the same rush of plunging mercilessly through the skies. When had he laid down to rest? He doesn't remember ever approaching his bed.

He loses track of time as he lays there, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers. An hour, two hours — time seems to blur. When the sun creeps through the blinds, starting its slow ascent to the zenith, he finally works up the energy to drag himself out of bed and freshen up.

That morning, it takes an offhand remark from the red dragon to realize he had inadvertently brewed an additional cup of coffee, much to his own bewilderment. They laugh, chalking it up to him still being dazed from sleep — he’s tempted to agree. Regardless, he leaves it out on the table across from him, watching the steam curl lazily in the air as he listens quietly to the minute chatter around him.

He knows it’s futile. Still, Sandalphon can't seem to stop the helpless pull of his eyes as they inevitably wander away from his companions ever so often, searching for someone he knows will never come, will never dare to trespass the boundaries of his dreams — the reality that exists only within the realm of Sandalphon’s mind.

The coffee goes cold, untouched and lifeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Asleep, awake, with love,_  
>  _you will leave light imposed on everything._  
>  **miguel hernández** // child of light
> 
>  


	4. i. ~interlude~ rediscovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re going _where_?”
> 
> “The hot springs!" Djeeta chirps. “We’ve been en route to the place for a while now, actually. I'm surprised you never asked."
> 
> He doesn't know why, either. He could think of several things they could do that was better worth their time, like things that started with the word 'Lucilius' and ended with the word 'legacy'. Had he given them too much credit by thinking they thought the same?
> 
> “You brought us halfway across the skydom,” Sandalphon reiterates. “To go to an island that has these so-called _hot springs_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as of the wmtsbiii trailer, this story is officially an **AU**. granted, with how close the event is, i'm honestly doubting if i should continue this fic, since it was meant to be pure speculation. i wouldn't be so worried if i could wrap this up by the time the sequel comes out, but that's definitely not possible at this point lol.
> 
> p.s i should say, sariel being canon is one thing i'm inexpicably happy about. it was the right decision to include him in this fic, even as just a mention.

“We’re going _where_?”

“The hot springs!" Djeeta chirps. “We’ve been en route to the place for a while now, actually. I'm surprised you never asked."

He doesn't know why, either. He could think of several things they could do that was better worth their time, like things that started with the word 'Lucilius' and ended with the word 'legacy'. Had he given them too much credit by thinking they thought the same?

“You brought us halfway across the skydom,” Sandalphon reiterates. “To go to an island that has these so-called _hot springs_.”

“That’s literally what I just said.” Djeeta pouts. “I heard it's the best season for it, and Lyria really wanted to go. Right, Lyria?"

“Yes!” Lyria nods, clapping her hands together enthusiastically. “We’re so close...I can’t wait! Korwa told me so much about it — like how the water is infused with the power of a primal beast, and that it feels like basking in a sea of elixirs!”

“Oh, really?” Djeeta says, eyes widening. “Elixirs are already hard to come by, but a whole spring? That explains why it’s a popular tourist spot. A primal beast that can transmit restorative magic through the water... now _that’s_ someone I’d like to meet.”

“Me too! I hope they’ll let us,” Lyria giggles, clasping her hands together. “I’ve never seen a primal beast play such a direct role in their culture before.”

“Come to think of it, most of the those we’ve seen are usually pretty standoffish, don’t you think? They don’t really interfere with the islands they’re pactbound to, and they—”

Sandalphon clears his throat, and the building cadence of the conversation in front of him abruptly ceases.

Djeeta blinks at him, almost as if just realizing he’s still there. "Oh, wow. I forget there’s a standoffish one right here.”

The accused crosses his arms. “Excuse me?”

Her reaction is mild, face carefully curated in the utmost calm. “Well, then. I guess it really is a good thing we’re going to the hot springs, because right now, you don’t look so... _hot_.”

It takes all of two seconds for her tranquil expression to crack as she gives the cackling red dragon nearby a high five.

Sandalphon has made a plethora of bad decisions in his life, many that landed him in less than desirable circumstances. But he thinks joining the crew must have been the stupidest decision of them all.

" _I knew I should have never tagged along with this band of crazies_." Djeeta intones, sighing dramatically. " _Oh, when will my sorrow end?_ "

"Hey," Sandalphon scowls. "I never said that."

"You don't have to; it's written all over your face." She smirks, eyes twinkling.

He doesn't know if it's possible to frown harder, but he tries anyway.

Lyria nudges his arm. "Um…. why don’t you join us, Sandalphon? I think it’s high time you took a break, too."

He redirects his disapproval down at the tiny girl standing next to him. "And pray tell, why do you think I need a _break_?"

He’s made little to no progress on Lucilius’ legacy or figured out the whereabouts of the Astral’s collaborators. He’d assisted the crew with their trivial missions in hopes that he would uncover some sort of lead, but to no avail. As each day passes by with nothing to show for it, the antsier he gets. At this point, they’re nothing more than sitting ducks — the worst kind of encumbrance in a war where an upper hand preemptive is pivotal to attaining victory. And they thought he deserved a _break_?

"Well, for starters," Djeeta starts. "We used to have almost daily ambushes with bandits and monsters onboard, but that all stopped ever since you joined us. You help us take down monsters and run errands from time to time. You make coffee for us every single morning — and no, looking grumpy about it the entire time changes nothing," she gives Sandalphon a look the second he opens his mouth to protest.

"And..." she looks up, a slightly pensive look to contrast her otherwise bright cadence. "You looked after the ship while we were gone that one time."

"This is ridiculous." He glowers. "I'm simply doing my part as a member of your crew. Do you think me to be so ungrateful?"

As much as he’d liked to believe otherwise, it didn't take him long to realize his help wasn’t entirely for the sake of his mission.

No, even if it weren’t for the sake of fulfilling the role of supreme primarch, he had an inkling suspicion that he would have still helped them. After all, if they hadn’t interfered, he would have continued to stay in the cradle for all of eternity, never truly knowing what happened to Lucifer. He would have contented himself with living a mockery of peace, soothing himself with pitiful lies and pleasant memories as the late Supreme Primarch passed on. Moreover, they had helped him take down Avatar — something he honestly thinks he wouldn't have been able to do alone, even with Lucifer's powers at his bidding.

He can't imagine disappointing Lucifer any more than he already has throughout his entire life.

“Gratefulness can go both ways.” Djeeta points out. “Just think of this as a token of _our_ gratitude. Everyone on this ship is joining in, too.”

"Like I said from the start, you've been going full bore 24/7!" Vyrn speaks up. "Sure, you're one helluva twisted up dude, but we care about you. We don't want you working yourself all the way to the bone!"

He can see them reaching out, metaphorical arms open in supplication as they wait for him to come to their embrace. Their pull is strong, he admits, sensing his fingers twitch.

"I can't rest until I've made progress on my mission." He looks away. "I made him a promise."

"And we're doing all we can to help you fulfill that promise!" Lyria exclaims, latching on to Sandalphon, who almost does a double take. _Almost_. "But I think it's also important to spend some time to unwind! Don’t you think so, too?”

He spends a moment to look at her face, so bright and hopeful. Then at Djeeta's and Vyrn's; a similar shade of hopeful and expectant. He's seen the way they reach out to people, both friends and strangers, unrelenting and without mercy. There are none more tireless in their conviction to save and free these people from whatever ails them, one life, one detour at a time.

It's a miracle they didn't buckle. Any other mortal would have ages ago — judging from the countless years he had spent observing them from Pandemonium. Humans are inherently fickle and selfish creatures.

It was only natural, with what their short lifespans. The time they devoted to helping others would be a time better used to fill their bellies or stake claim to mountains of wealth and power just beyond of their reach.

And yet, these three constantly defied all logic and reasoning. No matter how much time he spends with them — albeit reluctantly — he still can't wrap his head around them, nor is he intent on taking advantage of their naivety to do so.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but you all have done more than enough for me already." he reaches over to pry Lyria’s hands gently off his arm. "So I'm going to pass.”

The crestfallen looks are instantaneous, and the guilt manifests itself into a thousand needles in his gut. “I hope you enjoy yourselves, though."

He makes his way to the exit of Djeeta’s room. How he had even ended up here in the first place, he doesn’t even know. He’d knocked on her door when he couldn't find her anywhere on the ship for an inquiry, and before he knew it, he'd been ushered in like he was a late guest in their little tea party.

In any case, he's already drafted up a mental schedule of sorts. He'd seen Azazel skulking around the ship earlier — it probably wouldn't hurt to confront him about something that had been bothering Sandalphon lately.

But before he could take a single step, he feels arms circle around his waist from behind, small but unexpectedly steadfast, and he nearly stumbles over himself.

" _Lyria_ ," Sandalphon starts, using her real name for once. It feels a little weird rolling off his tongue, like he’s trying out a new language. It doesn't help stop the flustered annoyance raging through him. "Let me g—"

" _Please_ , Sandalphon!" She squeezes tighter, burrowing her head adamantly into his back. "I'm sorry if I'm annoying you. I just — I don't want you to be alone. It hurts me to see you being so hard on yourself, because I was the exact same way." He feels her shaking behind him.

(Absentmindedly, he worries she’ll hurt herself with from the hardness of the belt and the roughness of the linen wrappings around his waist, but he doesn’t budge. He _can’t_.)

"I thought everything was my fault too. That I had to work even harder to make up for it. But it only made me more miserable, and I can't imagine how you've managed to live like that for over a thousand years. But please,” her voice trembles. “Let your guard down around us, at least. I can't talk for anyone else, but I want — I want to be here for you. I want you to be with us."

It feels like reaching a hand into his core, shaking him like he’s a snow globe, upending the gravity that had kept his emotions down and strictly in check.

"How surprising." Sandalphon manages as he turns around. She lets go. "It seems you're not as selfless as I thought."

“I—” Lyria blinks wetly, only then realizing the tears streaming down her cheeks. Frantically, she starts to wipe her eyes on her arm, but not before Djeeta comes to her, wrapping an arm around her and offering her a tissue. "I’m not — I just — you —" she trails off, hiccuping.

Djeeta looks up at Sandalphon, her eyes soft. "She's really grown a liking to you, Sandalphon. Even before we met you again back in that temple, she wouldn't stop talking about you."

" _Me?_ " He blinks.

“Yes, you. Why else would she fight so hard for you to break out of that world?” Djeeta says. “I'll be honest. When you resigned yourself to staying there, I thought, _fine by me_. We were racing against the clock. I couldn't afford to sit around playing counselor for someone who once had every intent to commit foul play by chucking me off a cliff, emotional circumstances be damned. Dealing with you could come later. The Grandcypher, the primarchs’ expectations, and the fate of the world was riding on our shoulders. It always has been, and always will be.”

She looks down at Lyria, who is sniffling, head buried in Djeeta’s chest. Her face softens as she strokes Lyria’s head. “I don’t think I will ever fully understand. After what you did to her — no, I suppose that’s exactly why. She’s always been sympathetic, but... in that moment, Lyria’s priority wasn't the mission. Sandalphon,” Djeeta looks up, face earnest. “It was you.”

He still remembers the shape of the girl in blue tucked under his arm as he whisks her away from her found family. How vividly he had thought to use her as a mere bargaining chip, the sick satisfaction at seeing her shake and tremble and cry.

Now, she shakes and trembles and cries, but he feels nothing but a deep, terrible ache.

 _It could’ve been anyone._ A voice calls out like a distant, lone wolf from the dark vestiges of his mind. _Anyone at all._ _I just wanted one person in the world to tell me that I matter — that I’m needed!_

Before he knows it, he's gone down on a knee in front of the teary-eyed girl, who almost jumps from his abrupt proximity. Djeeta had delicately extricated herself, revealing Lyria's face blotchy with redness, eyes puffy from crying.

What is he doing? What is he going to do? There’s no script for this, no doubling back on his meticulously crafted, fool-proof plans to get him out of a sticky situation.

(Lately, it seems as if everything is backfiring on him.)

"I'm....sorry." He begins, awkward but sincere. He lets the words sit and soak into the atmosphere, half unsure of what to say next. Mostly he waits until she gathers herself enough to focus on him, giving a tiny hiccup.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you. I guess I just never thought that anyone would —  It's...strange. Knowing that there's someone out there who actually thinks about you. It's," he pauses, weighing his thoughts. "It's a nice feeling. Thank you."

Her face instantly brightens, like tiny rays of sun peeking out from behind heavy rain clouds, refracting light from watery surfaces. But it goes just as fast as it comes, like a stray cloud flickering over her face like thunder. She hangs her face down, fisting the front of her dress.

"No," she scrunches her eyes shut. "I’m the one who should be sorry. I know you need lots of space, and you dislike big crowds. I know this, and yet I still tried to force you to stick around..."

"True." he acquiesces. "Though it's not out of any inherent distaste of humans in general. You're aware of my past more than everyone else, I'm certain."

A pang of guilt flashes across her stricken face, and Sandalphon half-expects Djeeta to knock the living daylights out of him, but she doesn't budge.

"I'm so — I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to go through your memories. Somehow, I just —"

He waves her off. "No harm done. It was clearly my fault for taking off with you in the first place, knowing what it is you're capable of." He clears his throat, feeling the flush settle on his cheeks. "But I digress. What I'm trying to say is... I hadn’t the luxury of integrating myself into society, even among my own kind. Now, given the opportunity, I find myself at a loss. It's rare to see a day where I'm not overwhelmed by your people, so I tend to simply stay away. It’s easier that way, not to mention less distracting.

“But lately, I've come to realize something...incongruous." He purses his lips, studying the girl before him as she starts to fidget from the weight of his scrutiny. "You. You're extremely odd. I find myself more overwhelmed by you than anyone else. Your words, your actions; they hit home far more easily than I could have ever imagined. It's been stressful, to say the least."

She looks like she's ready to let the ground swallow her up, and Sandalphon thinks it's enough. Purposefully or not, he can't keep leading her on so badly.

So he reaches out, carefully, hands skimming unknown territory as he gently curls them around her knuckles that had gone white with pressure, coaxing them loose before bringing them toward himself.

How small and dainty they were. He remembers studying Djeeta’s hands too — slender, but calloused with experience. Lyria’s, on the other hand, is nothing but soft, like a baby’s bottom. She’s never toiled a day in her life, that much was clear. But as frail as it looks, he can feel the ancient power thrumming underneath, one that sung of stars’ prophecy and nebulous islands in the far yonder.

He looks up to see her staring at him with wide, saucer-like eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he mentally calculates and recalculates his next words. Once it's out, he can't take them back. He'll be past the point of return.

The mere idea should have sickened him, but...

"I never thought I would say this,” he admits. “But if it’s with you, I have a feeling I'll be just fine."

Lyria's jaw is open, lips flapping almost mechanically. "D-does that mean..."

"Yes," Sandalphon clarifies. "Yes. I'd like to come along with you...if you will have me."

The next moment finds Sandalphon looking into a full head of blue hair as he is tackled backwards — this time, he really does lose his footing as he lands in a heap on the ground, heels clattering gracelessly against the wooden floor. Vyrn holds no bars when it comes to his mirth, devolving into an uproar as he points at the absurd pair they must make on the floor. Djeeta joins in with a gentle smile as she leans down to pat Lyria’s head.

A smile, Sandalphon notes curiously, that doesn’t quite reach to her ears. Her eyes are affectionate, but there’s also something else. Like a sort of apprehension, or reservation. At first, he thinks it’s just his imagination; but then, dejavu.

When she had bid him goodbye on deck that fateful night, she had worn a similar expression.

He is far too familiar with it. The researchers had worn them constantly like a second skin whenever they conducted their experiments with him.

It was the face of someone who knows far more than they let on.

“ _Singularity_.”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.” She chuckles, but stops when she sees his heavy expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I have a question for you. I’d like it if you were honest with me.” Sandalphon continues, honing in on her every reaction with clear intent. “I met _him_ that night, when you left for your guild excursion.”

 _Eureka_. It was the work of a split second, but he sees her eyes dart away and back.

“...You knew, didn’t you?” Sandalphon says slowly. “I thought it was just me, but you were—”

The doorway slams open, revealing a breathless Rackam, who appeared to have sprinted straight from the deck to the captain’s quarters.

“I got the go ahead from the portmaster to throw down the anchor, so we should be fully docked in about ten minutes. I was wondering if you wanted…to…” he trails off, his face twisting as he registers his surroundings. He blinks once, then twice, eyebrows scrunching, then lifting, then scrunching again before tentatively settling at some midway point. “... Uhhh, sorry. Am I, um… interrupting something?”

Sandalphon is still sprawled haplessly on the ground, hands holding himself up from behind him as he nonchalantly bears the full brunt of Lyria’s weight, who still clings to him like some sort of blue koala hybrid.

Before Sandalphon could open his mouth, Djeeta beats him to the punch. “Oh! What great timing!” Her voice had taken on a much more cheerful undertone, bordering into dramatic. “I better go and announce myself as the captain!”

“ _Singu_ —”

“I’ll see you guys upstairs!” she expels in a single breath before she books it out of the room and leaves the whole room reeling in silence.

Rackam is still speechless, looking like his mind still hasn’t quite caught up yet top the scene before him.

At this point, Lyria had finally untangled herself from Sandalphon, and is now gazing at him with wanton innocence. “What happened just now?”

_Your friend is a terrible liar._

“It’s nothing,” Sandalphon shakes his head, brushing himself off as he makes to stand up as calmly as possible. “You should go to her.” At her expectant look, he adds, “I’ll be right behind you.”

She spends a moment of contemplation before she nods, satisfied, then leaves the room with Vyrn in tow.

“I... think I’m gonna just go for a smoke,” Rackam waves his hand, following after Lyria. “I’ll have a talk with you later. Don’t forget to close the door when you leave!”

Sandalphon sighs. He doesn’t know what strange thoughts are going through the helmsman’s mind, but he dreads to find out. Quite frankly, he shouldn’t even bother; it was just Rackam, after all. A mere human whose luck of the draw just happened to exposed him to the harum-scarum twin primarchs and that fallen reprobate, Belial.

But Sandalphon would rather rip off his own wings than allow Rackam to lump him in with the likes of them — _especially_ the latter.

He just hopes that talk would happen sooner rather than later.

As soon as he’s finished gathering himself, he leaves, making sure to shut the door like Rackam had instructed. Sandalphon would have missed the man hovering inconspicuously around the corner if his aura wasn’t so aggressive.

“You met him.” Azazel says curtly.

Sandalphon spares him nothing more than a cursory glance before he continues walking. To his dismay, Azazel falls into step behind him easily.

“Answer me.”

“I find it unfortunate,” Sandalphon sighs. “That this ship is apparently not lacking in its share of voyeurs.”

“Don’t play coy with me!” Azazel growls. “Just answer the _question_.”

Something in his tone stops Sandalphon in his tracks. He turns around and looks at Azazel, who looks like he’s two seconds away from losing his composure — not that he had much to begin with. And yet, instead of the permanent scowl that runs deep, his face is the epitome of cool fury, all smooth, cold hard lines. Underneath, the despair simmers, like the dying sparks of a firework in the night sky.

Sometimes, Sandalphon forgets he isn’t the only one affected by Lucifer.

“I met him.” he affirms. “And he’s not quite who you think he is.”

“So he’s a fake.”

“No.” Sandalphon murmurs, mind drifting away from the conversation and into more intimate matters. “It’s far more complicated than that.”

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

He doesn’t understand how he ended up in this position. He tries to put two and two together, but the pieces just didn’t seem to align.

Was it because he had chosen to entertain Azazel instead of rendezvousing with Lyria like he had promised? Or was it because he had made a short detour to the kitchen? He’d only been a couple minutes late, but the deck was bustling with too much activity before he knew it.

Everyone had been excited to disembark, save for Sandalphon. Regardless, he let himself be swept by the flow. He knows from experience that it is wasted effort to try and swim against the current.

When the crowd had parted, he found himself standing in the middle of a place as unfamiliar as it was daunting, with no familiar face in sight  — perhaps excluding the youth standing across from him with a similarly lost expression on his face.

And that’s how finds himself wandering around with _Ayer_ , of all people.

Sandalphon doesn’t realize he said it out loud until Ayer grumbles, “You’re not exactly my cup of tea either, but you don’t see me complaining.”

Okay, he had to admit that was kind of his fault. Being in the company off the Singularity had stripped him of his filters a little more than he had expected.  

“Naturally,” Sandalphon remarks. “I, for one, prefer a cup of coffee instead of tea.”

“Huh.” Ayer replies, noncommittal. Either the joke had flown over his head or he was choosing to ignore it. He steps aside just as a group of people walk by, chattering animatedly amongst themselves. “I guess you’re really him, then.”

“Him?”

“The dude who makes coffee every single morning.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, the array of trinkets laid out on the vendor nearest to him looks exponentially more fascinating. “I suppose.”

The awkward silence draping over them is made a little less conspicuous by the busybodies around them, shouting out orders as they climb ladders to string up lanterns along the entire expanse of the road. There are crowds wherever they look, perusing the collection of antiques and miscellaneous items as vendors would loudly advertise their wares under the hood of their strange, eastern-style stalls. At least this was indication that as far east as they had ventured, they were still in Nalhegrande.

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“Tomorrow, there’s going to be a festival, of sorts.” Ayer answers, humming. “It’s the kind of festival that only happens once a year, and lanterns are apparently a recurring motif in this long-standing tradition. There’s a shrine nearby where some rituals are going to take place, if you’re interested in checking it out.”

Sandalphon arches a brow, begrudgingly amused at how interested Ayer sounds in spite of himself. “You’re pretty well-read, aren’t you?”

“I like reading. What of it?”

Sandalphon looks at him — arms rippling with muscle despite his young age, bandages wrapped haphazardly around them. Bruises both new and old littered over his skin, as though he’s gotten into one too many scuffles. He tries to imagine the small hands ridged and calloused from years of fighting — the underside of his nails filled with dirt and grime — flipping harmlessly through a book.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Ayer scowls. “You know what, don’t answer that. I don't wanna hear anything stupid come out of your mouth, like _oh_ , _you totally don’t_ **look** _it_. I get enough of that as it is. Just because I fight in underground rings doesn’t mean I can’t be an intellectual.”

“Sorry.” Sandalphon says mildly. He walks down the aisle when he notices rows of masks in all shapes and sizes hung like plastic trophies on the wall, representing every facet of human expression he could think possible. “I suppose I have yet to spend enough time around people to understand these things.”

For a moment, he doesn’t get a reply. Sandalphon wonders if the other boy had finally decided to go do something worth his time, but then Ayer steps up right next to him.

“Now’s a better time than any, I guess.” Ayer says, careful to keep his tone emotionless. “I can go around with you, if you want.”

“Why?” Sandalphon asks, puzzled. “Don’t tell me you feel bad for me, because I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not that.” Ayer looks like he’s trying not to groan outright. “It’s just.” He starts cracking his knuckles, and Sandalphon realizes it’s a nervous tic. “I can kinda relate.”

“You can?” It comes out before Sandalphon can stop himself. So even humans could isolate themselves from each other. Somehow, this information surprises him more than it should.

“Don’t look so surprised.” Ayer scuffs the ground, beckoning for Sandalphon to walk. He obliges. “I just couldn’t get along with the other kids my age. They were all so spoiled and pampered, and they expected me to act the same way just because I was also pretty well off.”

“Sounds like you lived a fairly cushy life.” Sandalphon observes.

“Yeah. I hated it.” Ayer says. “Living day after day in peace and luxury, following rules and pretending to be happy when you’re little more than a domesticated animal really isn’t my style.”

Sandalphon snorts, drawing Ayer’s attention to him. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Sandalphon shakes his head. If only he knew how right he is. “I just find that fate works in strange but simple ways.”

“ _You’re_ strange.” Ayer mutters, and that’s when Sandalphon decides he likes this kid.

Part of the day goes by fairly quickly as they tour the stalls together that Sandalphon could say he honestly forgot about his intention to find Lyria and the others. It’s not like he _can’t_ find them if he really wanted to — he can already sense their presence somewhere in the large vicinity of the market — but quite frankly, he’s in no rush.

They pass by a couple of food carts before Ayer gives in and buys food for himself — a strange bean-like texture on rice. Judging by the looks he gets as he made his way back to the bench Sandalphon makes himself comfortable on, it doesn’t look to be a popular menu choice.

He quickly realizes that looks weren’t all it had to contend with as soon as Ayer comes within ten feet of him.

Sandalphon struggles to keep his face even as the stench invades his nostrils.

It smells downright _putrid_. 

“What,” Sandalphon inhales through his mouth. “is that.” 

“ _Natto_.” Ayer replies, completely unaffected. Looking up, he sees the man staring at him. “You want some?”

“No,” Sandalphon says, gagging inside. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Your loss. It's pretty damn nutritious.” Ayer laments, and Sandalphon watches with growing dread as Ayer nonchalantly uses the two sticks provided to him as some form of eating utensil to lift the beans; a sticky, slimy texture clinging to each other. “It's better than raw soybeans in that it offers lower calories and less sodium, but that's not all. What's so great about it is that there's no cholesterol involved whatsoever, and it's a great source of iron, calcium and —”

“Wait — wait just a minute.” Sandalphon holds up a hand, stopping Ayer before he could fire off into a tangent. “You eat that…that _goop…_ for nutrition?”

“What is with everyone calling the food I eat _goop_?” he says, exasperated.

“Because it's goop.” Sandalphon deadpans.

“No, it's not!” he retorts, but Sandalphon just stares at him. “I mean, fine, it _may_ be a little goopy. But I’m not eating it because I like it. I just read that it’s good for bone health.”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do. You do you.” Sandalphon reaches for the bottle strapped to his waist. “You just enjoy that goop right there while I sit here on the far corner of this bench, enjoying my coffee.”

“You're so —” Whatever comeback Ayer had on his tongue dies as he perks up, tone brightening. “ — wait, you brought coffee?" 

“You like coffee?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorts, petulant.

“I mean no offense. Though I must say, enjoying books is one thing. But _coffee_?” he snorts. “I suppose you’ll bring up a fondness for having deeply philosophical conversations next.”

He didn’t mean to pose it as a challenge towards the human, but by the time he realized it, it was too late. There is a sudden glint in Ayer’s eyes as he clasps the styrofoam top of his natto closed — thank the _heavens_ — before he stalks over to Sandalphon, hand outstretched.

“Give me that,” Ayer snaps. “I’ll show you.”

Oh, he’s gone and done it now.

“Listen. If you haven't noticed, I’m pretty well known around these parts for saying things I don’t really mean.” Sandalphon’s attempt at backpedaling is noteworthy, to say the least. “I’m not challenging you to drink. It’s fine and all if you like it, but don't think you have to go out of your way to prove your —”

“Just,” Ayer grits out, “give it to me.”

“Are you sure?” Sandalphon warns as a last ditch effort, but the bottle has already left his hands. Ayer twists the nozzle and pours coffee into the detachable cup, sniffing it deliberately. “Just saying, not everyone likes coffee. You don’t have to force yourself to, you know. The flavor profile of this one is pretty strong.”

“Eh, what's the worst that could happen.” Ayer remarks, before bringing the cup to his lips and chugging it.

“Well, for starters, this is essentially coffee extracted from leols.” Sandalphon provides helpfully. “Specifically, their defecation." 

The primarch slides out of the way just in time for the fountain of coffee to spurt out of the youth’s mouth and onto the bench he had just occupied as Sandalphon watches, forlorn.

“What did you just say?” Ayer sputters, eyes wide as saucers, coffee dribbling down his chin.

“What a waste of perfectly good coffee.” Sandalphon sighs, shaking his head. “Splattered on the ground, just like your ego.”

“What the hell? What does coffee have to do with my ego? Y-You — you’re just like Seofon!” He blurts, red-faced.

“Seofon, that blond buffoon?” He sips his coffee, hiding the smile that bloomed regardless. “Now that’s just rude." 

“Did someone call my name?!” 

Oh, _creator_. 

“Oho, it’s the broody hoodie duo!” 

“ _Run_.” Ayer hisses, but it’s too late.

Before Sandalphon could take a single step, the man had popped out of nowhere to sling an arm around the raven’s neck. “I see our good boy Ayer here has adopted yet another big brother! Don’t have too much fun now, or Big Bro-fon is going to get a little jealous!” 

 _“Big brother_?” Sandalphon repeats, incredulous.  

“Don’t listen to him!” Ayer snarls. “He’s off his rocker as usual.”

His eyes are smiling when he turns his attention to Sandalphon, but something in his eyes unnerves the brunet. “Hm, I don't believe we've ever properly met before. Name’s Seofon, leader of the Eternals.” He sticks his hand out, while still being draped around Ayer. “Nice to meet you, Sandalphon!”

“The pleasure is all yours, I’m sure.” Sandalphon says dryly.

 "We got another cold one here! Man, you two are like two peas in a pod.” the Eternal shakes his head, laughing as he retracts his hand. “Now all you need is Jamil to make three of you, though he’s probably off trying to imitate Vyrn again. Anyways! How’ve you two been enjoying the festival so far?”

“It’s been enjoyable.” Ayer says. “At least, until you got here.” 

“Good, good!” he grins, completely ignoring the slight. “I’m glad you two are enjoying yourselves. Don’t get too carried away now, you hear? There’s still a whole day tomorrow for festivities.” He turns towards Sandalphon again. “Make sure you don’t sneak him any drinks. He’s not of age yet.” 

Sandalphon squints. “I’m sure he doesn’t need you to tell me that.” 

“You can say that again.” Ayer says. “What are you even doing here, anyway? The Eternals having a vacation, too?”

“Aha, about that,” Seofon scratches the back of his head. “You see, I’m kind of in a pickle.”

“What?” Ayer barks. “Don’t drag us into one of your dumb messes. How are you even the leader of the Eternals?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.” He winks.

“ _Seofon_!” A voice growls from just around the corner, low and foreboding. “Get back here before I claw out your eyes myself!”

“ _Aaaand_ there you have it.” Seofon lowers his voice almost conspiratorially. “We’re playing cat and mouse.” He turns to leave, but at the last second, he adds, “I’m the mouse, if you haven’t guessed.”

And he’s gone. 

Not a moment later, another man turns the corner, breathless and silently fuming. He stops in front of them, gazing at them expectantly. 

“The mouse went that way.” Sandalphon points to where Seofon ran off. 

All’s fair game when Seofon never specified not to give him away. 

A flicker of recognition alights in his one visible gray eye when he turns to Sandalphon, so subtle that Sandalphon almost misses it, but he nods instead. “Thanks.”

He’s gone before they know it.

 “Who was that?” Sandalphon asks after a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him around before.”

“That’s Seox, another one of the Eternals.” Ayer cracks his neck. “I don’t see him very often, but he’s way more decent than Seofon from what I can tell. Too bad Seofon keeps bugging the hell out of him.”

Now he knows that not everyone in that organization is like Seofon. For a second there, he was getting worried.

“Have you met all of these...Eternals?”

“Nowhere even close.” Ayer scoffs. “I’ve only seen, like, maybe two others in passing. That was during summer last year. Count yourself lucky that you ran into them, I guess. Also, let’s get a move on. I’m getting antsy just standing here.”

“He looked like he knows me.” Sandalphon says, following Ayer as they immerse themselves into the throng of people once more. “Seofon, too.”

“Are you kidding?” Ayer says. “There’s no one here who _doesn’t_ know you.”

The verbal confirmation wasn’t necessary — he’s seen the evidence of it on the ship. But he finds that hearing it from people that aren’t the Singularity or Lyria gives the truth a whole new flavor.

He eyes the kid next to him, all while navigating under the hulk of some enormous male draphs carrying crates around him. He supposes his height is an advantage in situations like this. “You don’t seem very affected by my presence, though.”

“Of course not,” Ayer says, nonchalant. “Just because you’re some crazy angel hotshot now doesn’t mean I gotta treat you any differently. If you’re on the Grandcypher, you’re one of us.”

Sandalphon almost stumbles over his feet, and he blames the uneven cobblestones.

“Whoa, you okay there?”

“I’m fine.” Sandalphon huffs. Before Ayer could see the flush travelling up his ears, he turns away. “Hey. Doesn’t that mask look like the one you’re wearing around your waist?” 

The other boy peers skeptically at the stall Sandalphon is pointing at, and then the aura turns a full 180. “Oh. _Oh_.” He looks like he’s trying his best to stay cool, but Sandalphon could practically see the stars in his eyes. “Uh, I’ll be right back.”

Without waiting for Sandalphon’s reply, Ayer slips through the crowd and disappears.

Sandalphon purses his lips, trying and failing to stifle the small smile on his face as he makes his way after him.

Ayer is interesting, he can say that much. For some reason, he reminds Sandalphon of Grimnir — a comparison he didn’t expect to make….ever. Grimnir also loved reading books, and being the youngest of the Four had incurred some kind of inherent need for him to be recognized.

(Then again, it could be the effect of having someone as aloof as _Raphael_ as his mentor, when the warrior himself was akin to a hysterical dog. By all means, the pair’s dynamic should have been a recipe for a catastrophe of epic proportions. And yet somehow they managed to get along — something that befuddled Sandalphon to no end up to this day.)

When it comes down to it, they were both young, prone to strive endlessly to impress others and try to come off more mature than they truly are.

Has Sandalphon ever gone through that phase in his life? His early life had been mostly a blur of halcyon days blending with each other to form a nondescript blandness, but he only ever remembered the feeling of absolute subservience. 

Perhaps he had wished, deep inside, that Lucifer would acknowledge him too. In a way, he _had_ — Sandalphon was not fool enough to pretend that Lucifer gave the other angels half as much attention as he gave him.

It wasn’t something so trivial as acknowledgement that he craved. No, at the core of it all, it was simply the desire to please.

When he discovered he could never achieve the means towards that end, would never be destined to, the knowledge had driven him to the brink of insanity.

After much introspection, he’d come to a conclusion. It had been the innocence of his desires that caused him to break so readily. By the time he realized it, he had already matured far too fast for his liking.

He envies them.

Ayer has been reduced to incoherent babbling by the time Sandalphon finds his way to him. It’s a far cry from the cold bluntness he exhibited up until just moments earlier, and Sandalphon wishes he had one of those contraptions that the Astrals possessed to record situations like this for the sake of posterity.

“This one…. or that one? Man, I can’t decide!” He is so deep in consternation that he doesn’t realize he had attracted attention.

The shopkeeper laughs heartily. “It’s not every day I see young ’uns like you taking interest in my antiques!” He leans forward. “You like those avian goggles? How about this; you can have them both for 25% off!”

Ayer gapes. “Seriously?”

“Hey hey, I know all too well the stereotype we merchants get. But trust me when I say there are a few of us out there who aren’t crooks.” The man’s smile is mellow and sincere. “Granted, there’s nothing I can do to prove it. It just warms the heart to see someone so young appreciate my wares.”

“Stop calling me young,” Ayer mumbles, but his bright expression doesn’t fade. “But fine. I’ll take them, if you don’t mind.”

The man produces a small vintage casket, gilded and lovely. The design is intricate, the sign of impressive marksmanship — definitely not one you handed out willy nilly to strangers. Sandalphon has to make sure he’s seeing it right.

“Put them in here, if you will. I have a feeling you’ll take very good care of them.”

Ayer seems to get the same idea as his eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “N-No, that’s too much. The case — I can’t possibly take that from you.”

“Nonsense.” The man tuts. “What’s the point of buying it if it doesn’t get the treatment it deserves? I insist.” Then he adds. “My grandmother would have wanted it this way.”

Ayer looks like he wants to say something else, but he shuts his mouth at the last second, silently dumping a handful of rupies in his hand, taking the box with an awkward little nod and following Sandalphon as he leaves the stall. The seller sees them off with an amicable wave.

“Humans are...interesting.” Sandalphon comments idly as he watches the younger boy inspect the casket’s contents. “From the looks of it, that seemed to be a sort of family heirloom. And yet, he was so willing to part with it — for the price of nil, and to a stranger, at that.” He tries to scan the object for clues that could potentially point it to being a trap, but he senses nothing.

“He was just weird.” Ayer says after a while, but he folds the cover shut carefully, cradling it like a baby bird. “I don’t think he was a bad person…. though I’m sure _he’d_ say otherwise.”

Sandalphon gets a nagging feeling he’s not talking about the shopkeeper, nor anyone they’d encountered so far. But he wisely chooses to ignore it. “Are both of those for you?”

Ayer pauses, pursing his lips in thought. “No. I think I'll give the other one to my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yeah,” Ayer flushes, his words quiet and solemn. “I’ve actually been trying to find something to give her for awhile.”

“Ah.” Sandalphon nods. Suddenly, that puts things into perspective. “You must be close." 

“I wouldn’t say that.” he averts his gaze. “Things happened...and we got separated for a while. We only reunited just recently, and that was purely by chance. If it weren’t for Djeeta and the crew, we’d probably might have never seen each other again.” 

“I see.” Sandalphon looks up. The sky has grown dark, not a trace of the blue that had borne the wishes of many. “In that case, you should cherish her while you still have the chance.”

The brunet looks back down to see Ayer narrowing his eyes at him. “What’s got you so sentimental all of a sudden?”

“Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say.” Sandalphon says. “I’m just trying to look out for you, just like a _big brother_ would.”

Whatever idling curiosity the boy has dissipates into an indignant groan. “I thought I told you not to take him seriously!”

“I’m just kidding.” Sandalphon replies, secretly wondering if this is what it’s like to have a younger sibling as he watches Ayer look away for the umpteenth time. It was far too easy to fluster the kid  — though a traitorous part deep inside whispers that the same probably holds true for him. “So, you like birds?”

It takes a bit for Ayer to respond as he recovers from his most recent bout of anguish. He looks down, patting the goggles around his waist lightly, almost affectionately.

“I guess,” Ayer mumbles, then surprisingly, looks up to meet Sandalphon’s eyes. “They’re pretty damn cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a sandalphon is everyone’s big brother part 1. expect the last part in the next chapter before shit finally goes down. also -- it seems im physically incapable of writing sandalphon as anything but a deadpan snarker u_u

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on twitter at @makarakaja!


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